THE WORLD

BEFORE THEM.

A Novel.

BY

MRS. MOODIE,

AUTHOR OF “ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH.”

IN THREE VOLUMES.

1868.

VOLUME I.

CHAPTER I.

DOROTHY AND HER LOVER.

“But, Dolly! father will never give his consent, you know that;” said a male voice behind the hawthorn hedge, that skirted the deep, sandy lane that led to Heath Farm. The tone, reproachful and irritating, in which this was spoken, was answered in a sweet, calm voice.

“Until he gives his consent, his frank, free consent, Gilbert, I cannot, and will not be your wife.”

“You are just as obstinate as the old man.”

“Ay, and as proud. But don’t think for a moment, Gilbert, that I blame your father. Were I in his place, I might think just as he thinks. If he has higher views for his son than a marriage with a nameless girl like me, his son should be the last to find fault. Don’t let love blind you to facts. Look them boldly in the face, as I do. I cannot forget what I am, and what I owe to your father. The happy life I have led here from a child, made me forgetful of the great debt until”—and here the calm voice faltered—“the reproaches of last night brought it all fresh to my mind, and I saw how ungrateful I had been to my benefactor, in giving the least encouragement to you.”

“Yes, I shall not soon forget the cruel insult he put upon you. It was mean and cowardly, to say the least of it. He might be proud to call you his daughter, and his daughter you shall be, in spite of him.”

“There are two words to that bargain,” and that voice now spoke sternly and decidedly, “two voices that speak in my heart—the voice of love pleading for you; the voice of conscience, demanding of me to act rightly. Which shall I obey?”

No answer was given to this appeal.

The speakers came forward to the stile; the young farmer with the fork over his shoulder, with which he had been making hay; his companion, a girl of seventeen, with the rake in her hand, her broad, coarse straw hat dangling from her arm, her raven ringlets thrown back from her fine sunburnt face, which glowed with healthy exercise.

The lovers had been working together through the long June day. This was the first time that either had spoken upon a subject that was uppermost in their thoughts, which had lain like a heavy weight upon their hearts, and rendered them unusually reserved to each other. They had worked in silence and apart, expecting the explanation which they knew must come, which both wished, yet each secretly dreaded, and put off until the last moment, as if by mutual consent.

The hay was all cocked, they could no longer linger in the field; and as they strolled homeward, Gilbert had broken the ice, and spoken in such an abrupt and decided manner, that it had aroused in his companion a spirit of resistance; and confirmed her in the course which, after long and painful consideration, she had determined to adopt, not to accept the hand of her lover against the wishes of his father.

The young people leant for a few minutes on the stile, beneath the shade of a large ash tree—the only tree of any magnitude in the heathy lane before them. They would have made a good study for an artist, had an artist been at hand to sketch them and their surroundings.

The sun had sunk behind the common fronting them, which formed a steep ridge against the horizon; and seemed to separate them from the rest of the world. The road led to an old fashioned, high gabled farm-house at the foot of the hill; the only tenement visible from that lonely spot.

A little brawling brook crossed the road, and threaded its silvery way through the low meadow which had been the scene of their labours; singing and prating to the flowers that bent over its tiny waves, as they wound their course down to the sandy beach, to add their mite to the vast world of waters.

The sides of the lane were skirted with high furze bushes. The short strip of velvet sod that bordered the road, blue with harebells, interlaced with tufts of purple heath; and the high common glowed like an amethyst in the red rays of the setting sun.

The near proximity to the sea hindered a softer growth of herbage, but the spot was not deficient in picturesque beauty; and the deep bass voice of the unseen ocean gave an additional charm to the rugged landscape.

To the young and loving, nature is always beautiful in the most homely garb; and as the delicious perfume of the new mown hay floated out upon the warm evening air, our young folks, who had never known a brighter spot, thought it divine—an Eden of flowers and freshness.

There was nothing remarkable in the appearance of the young farmer; but his fellow-worker possessed no ordinary share of beauty, and in her own peculiar way was a remarkable person.

They were simple country folks, who had been brought up in the old house at the foot of the hill. They had spent their lives together in that secluded spot, and had been, and still were, all the world to each other.

Gilbert Rushmere was the son of a well-to-do yeoman, whose forefathers had owned and cultivated the farm that extended for a hundred acres in breadth, on either side of the road, for many generations. The old family records shewed that the Rushmeres had, during the reign of the Lancastrian line of Plantagenets, been a family of considerable repute in the county of–-. That Nicholas de Rushmere had been lord of the manor of Hadstone, and resided in the old baronial hall that still raised its proud head above the oak forest that skirted the western horizon, though hid from view by the steep common in front of the lane, in which his rustic descendant stood.

A strong, active, young fellow, of three and twenty, was Gilbert Rushmere; with ruddy cheeks, blue eyes and homely features; the latter, however, rendered very agreeable by the frank, honest expression they wore, which had secured for him the good-will of his neighbours.

Some people are born to be popular among the class to which they belong. Not so much from any merit peculiarly their own; but from inheriting from nature a happy physical temperament, a willingness to please and to be pleased, with every one with whom they fall in company.

Such men are always prized more highly than they deserve; if educated, they push their way into situations of comfort and independence, with very little effort. Society likes their genial companionship, and they are favourites with, and favoured alike by young and old.

Gilbert was one of those petted individuals who carry the good-will of others by storm. Young fellows in his own grade repeated his sayings and imitated his doings, and he was the chief man and oracle among them at fair or market.

He had received the scanty education generally bestowed upon the sons of small yeomen at the beginning of the present century. He could read and write, and cast accounts, but in good truth, he preferred the labours of the field to poring over books, and could do a hard day’s work without grudge or grumbling, could plough a straight furrow, and master a high-spirited horse; and was considered the best cricket player in the county. In the eyes of his companion—and oh! what splendid black eyes they were—he was without doubt the cleverest, handsomest, and dearest man in the world.

Of Dorothy Chance—for so the young girl was called—a few words must be said, in order to explain the conversation, which the reader has overheard, between her and her lover.

Fifteen years prior to the commencement of our story, Dorothy had been found by farmer Rushmere on the wild common fronting them. It was the early dawn of a bright summer day, succeeding a night of terrific storm and darkness. The farmer was abroad earlier than usual, to see if his weanling calves had sustained any injury from the down-pouring of the pitiless thunder shower.

Passing through a deep hollow in the heath, his attention was drawn towards a clump of furze bushes, by the faint cries of a child. Thinking that it might belong to some neighbour, had wandered from its home, and been overtaken by the storm, he hastened to the spot.

A little head suddenly appeared above the wet heather-bells, then as quickly disappeared, and all was again quiet. The frightened little one, on seeing a stranger approaching, nestled more closely into the cold bosom, on which she had slept, during the terrible tempest of the past night.

“Is it a child, or a fairy?” muttered the good man, as the apparition vanished into the earth.

“Here Towser!” whistling to his sheep dog, who followed close at his heels. “Find this stray lamb for thy master?”

The sagacious animal pounced upon the terrified child.

“Mamma! mamma!” screamed the frightened little one, as Rushmere tried to lift her from her hiding place, under the tattered cloak of a young woman, whose slight emaciated form lay shrouded in the wet heather.

The farmer slightly stirred the prostrate sleeper with his foot.

“Woman—Thou beest a sound sleeper—Wake up, and see to thy bairn, and I will gie thee both a good breakfast.”

The figure remained motionless. There was no answering voice or sound.

The farmer stooped down, and raised the shabby bonnet from the face of the woman to examine her more carefully.

He stepped hastily back, his cheeks, before so fresh and ruddy, were now blanched with a deadly pallor.

The poor marble statue at his feet can no longer respond to the cries of her famishing child. She is cold, is dead.

A forlorn victim of want—perhaps, of vice, overtaken by night and storm, rendered feeble by disease and famine, unable to battle with the hostile elements, has died unknown and unheeded in that lonely spot. No human ear heard her cries for help, no pitying voice soothed her last agonies. No friendly eye marked the despairing love which clutched to her chilling bosom the tender form of her sleeping child, when during the bitter conflict with death, she implored the Heavenly Father to take them both.

She was still very young, not over twenty years of age; and, though squalid and dirty, and clothed with the filthy rags that vice bestows upon her degraded victims, her shrunken features retained even in death some semblance of former beauty. Her hands were small and white, and delicately formed; and seemed to have been little accustomed to hard work or out-door drudgery.

A plain gold ring encircled the third finger of the left hand. There was no money in her pockets, nothing that could give the least clue to who, or what she had been. It was painfully evident to the most casual observer, that she had died of absolute starvation.

Poor houseless wanderer! She had found at last a safe home—a soft bosom on which to pillow her aching head, and still the wild beatings of her breaking heart.

“Bless my soul! but this is a bad business, a bad business,” muttered the farmer. “I wonder how it all com’d about.”

The innocent child put its wasted arms around its mother’s neck, and tried to awaken her with its caresses, kissing pale lips that could never kiss again, and warbling unintelligible baby language into an ear locked by eternal silence.

The man’s rugged nature was touched by the pitiful sight. Tears filled his eyes, as he lifted the living child from the dead bosom to which it obstinately clung. The ragged cloak, with which maternal love had endeavoured to shield its offspring from the fury of the storm, became holy as the white robe of an angel.

“Poor lass I Thy last thought was for thy child. May the good Lord shew the same mercy to thee.”

So farmer Rushmere took the little foundling to his home, and adopted her as his child; and buried the unrecognized stranger, at his own expense, in the picturesque burying-ground of the small gothic ivy-covered church that stood on the other side of the heath.

The little girl they conjectured to be between two and three years of age. She could only lisp a few broken words. All they could learn from her, in answer to their oft-repeated questions, was, that the poor dead woman was “Mammy,” and that she herself was “Mammy’s Dolly;” so the good man and his wife, to make sure of her being a Christian, rebaptized this stray lamb from the world’s great fold, and named her Dorothy Chance. An odd and somewhat unromantic name, but very significant of the circumstances under which she was found.

A fortunate chance it was that brought Dorothy beneath farmer Rushmere’s roof. From that day, the good Providence that had watched over her, blessed his basket and his store, and made every undertaking to prosper in his hands.

Had he found a crock of gold, the treasure would have been of less value in the homestead than the services of Dorothy proved to its inmates in after years.

Mrs. Rushmere, a kind, simple-hearted woman, had but one child, a boy, some six years older than Dolly. She had always wished for a daughter, to share with her the domestic labours of the farm, and her desires had met their fulfilment when the orphan child of the vagrant was thrown into her arms.

The little maid grew and prospered under her maternal care; and became the pet and darling of her adopted mother. At fifteen years of age she was able to perform all the labours required in the house, besides helping in the field during the busy seasons of hay-time and harvest.

Slight in figure and graceful in all her motions, Dorothy was, nevertheless, strong and active. Sickness had never blanched the warm glow on her cheeks, or dimmed the brightness of her large, lustrous eyes. Healthy, happy, cheerful, it was a pleasure to listen to her clear ringing voice, to enter into the spirit of her joyous laugh; to feel that a creature, so free from care and guile, hovered like a good angel about your path.

Without the sunshine of Dolly’s presence, the old homestead would have been a gloomy prison, surrounded by that lonely desolate heath, and its inmates weary plodders along the dusty high-road of life.

The Rushmeres kept no servants, male or female. The farmer and his son did all the out-door work, leaving to Mrs. Rushmere and Dolly the management of the dairy, the rearing of calves and poultry, and the spinning of flax and wool.

Once a week, Dorothy drove a light tax-cart to the market town, some five miles distant, to dispose of her eggs, cheese, and butter. The excellence of these latter articles had gained for their maker quite a reputation; they always commanded the highest price, and brought no small gain to her adopted parents.

Dorothy’s reputation, however, was not confined to her skill as a dairy-maid; she was considered the prettiest girl in those parts; though her beauty was not a perfect model of what art has chosen for its highest types.

Her eyes were dark and expressive, surmounted by a smooth forehead and black arched eyebrows, soft as velvet, and quite eastern in their hue and texture. Her nose was straight and well-formed, but the rosy mouth, full of white even teeth, and graced by two charming dimples, which continued to smile after the honest, gay peal of laughter had died away upon the dewy lips, was far too large for the required standard of female beauty. Her cheeks and chin were softly rounded and bronzed by the sun to a warm brown tint, reminding one of the rich colouring of ripe autumnal fruits.

After all, the beauty which gladdened every eye lay in the expression of the whole countenance; in the harmony that reigned in every feature; which, when lighted up and animated by the spirit within, was irresistibly pleasing—a picture full of sense, goodness, and warm confiding affection.

Lovers our little Dorothy had by the score, though she was never seen but at church or at market. Many a young farmer in the neighbourhood would have deemed himself a fortunate fellow, could he have persuaded Dorothy to become his wife. And Dorothy was not averse to admiration—few women are; but she was too young, and too much occupied by household matters, to cast one thought on matrimony. Her life, hitherto, had glided on so smoothly, that she was not aware that her love for Gilbert exceeded the affection that a sister might own for an elder brother, who had always treated her with tender confidence and kindness, until his importunities had suddenly awakened her to the fact, and pressed the conviction home to her heart, that they were something more than brother and sister to each other. Still, on Dorothy’s part, it was more a love springing out of long association and deep-rooted esteem, than the passion generally recognised by that name. She could have given him up to another, without any very severe pang, if she thought by so doing, it would have been for his happiness.

This state of things was not destined to last long. The peace of families is subject to sudden interruptions, as well as the peace of nations. The noblest qualities of the heart often have their birth amid scenes of domestic strife, as the devotion and patriotism of the soldier are strengthened by the horrors of the battle-field.

Old Rushmere had raised an unreasonable persecution against his son on Dorothy’s account. This circumstance had made her feel a deeper interest in Gilbert, and had quickened her friendship into love.

Though good and worthy in his way, the old man was avaricious, and possessed an enormous amount of family pride. This latter quality was based, not upon the position in the county which his family then held, but upon that which it had once occupied. Gilbert was his only child, the last of the old stock; and he cherished a parental hope, that his boy, by industry and a wealthy marriage, might restore its ancient respectability. Such dreams, however improbable of fulfilment, are natural enough.

He loved Dorothy, but he did not wish her to be Gilbert’s wife; he regarded her in the light of a daughter, knew her worth, and the advantage of her presence in the house; but expected Gilbert to feel no deeper interest in her than that of a sister, and was quite indignant that he would not acknowledge an imaginary tie of kindred.

He had been a prudent, hard-working man himself; and though Heath Farm was not remarkable for the goodness of its soil, consisting mostly of wild, uncultivated heath land, he had contrived to lay by a handsome sum of money, and hoped to see his son one day a gentleman. And what was Dorothy? Perhaps the bastard of a beggar. Such an alliance was not to be tolerated for a moment, in connection with the last scion of his name and race.

Rushmere blamed his innocent wife for having encouraged the growing attachment between Gilbert and Dorothy, in no measured terms of displeasure; and having caught this disobedient son in the very act of kissing the ruby lips of the orphan, he told him in hot anger before her face—“That if he persevered in that nonsense, he would cut him off with a shilling; and turn her out of the house to find a living on the heath where he first picked her up.”

The good wife remonstrated. In the humour her spouse was then in she had better have remained silent—she told him, that he was harsh and unjust. I am afraid she called him a fool, for abusing the young people after that fashion—she insisted that Dorothy was the best girl in the county; that she loved her as her own life; that Gilly was a wise man in wishing to secure such an excellent wife; that he might search England through, and not meet with such a bonny lass; that she would rejoice at their marriage, and give them her blessing with all her heart.

This praise of her favourite, though quite sincere on Mrs. Rushmere’s part, and fully merited by Dorothy, was very impolitic at such a moment; it exasperated the angry old man, and made matters worse.

Gilbert, backed by the imprudence of his mother, did worse. He made use of very violent language to his father, and said and did many undutiful things.

“He was a man,” he said, “and of age to please himself—he meant to be his own master—he did not care a fig for his father’s opinions and prejudices, and he would marry Dorothy, whether he liked it or not.”

There is no knowing how the quarrel might have terminated—for Rushmere was an obstinate, self-willed man like his son—had not the innocent cause of the disturbance, instead of crying and wringing her hands, or dropping down at his feet in a dead faint, like any other heroine of romance, quietly stepped up to the exasperated farmer, and, laying her hand upon his arm, said in her pleasant, cheerful voice.

“Don’t be afraid, father. He shan’t marry me without your consent, so don’t be angry and abuse us all; for which you will be sorry an hour hence. Listen now to me. I love Gilbert. I believe that he loves me. I love you and mother also. I do not intend to vex or grieve you by any conduct of mine; nor do I mean to leave you, now you are both infirm and old. I am young and strong, and better able to work than you are. If you turn me out of the house by one door, I will come in at the other. I owe you a large debt of gratitude, which I want to work out—so do not talk of sending me away. God gave you to me for parents. I have no other, nor friends beside you in the wide world.”

Her lips quivered, but, quickly regaining her composure, she went on. “Hear me, father, while I promise you faithfully, before God and you all—and you know, father, I never told you a lie—that I will not marry Gilbert without your consent and approbation—your full, free, hearty consent.” She held out her hand—“Will that satisfy you?”

Obstinate as he was, the girl’s frank honesty conquered the angry old man. He took the proffered peace-offering, and shook it warmly.

“Ay, lass! I will e’en take thee at thy word. You are more dutiful than yon chap. I cannot so easily forgive him.”

“But you must forgive him, father. Angry people are not aware of all the hard things they say to each other.”

“True for you, girl. I have naught to say agin you, Dolly; I might get a worse daughter. But there are some ugly drawbacks to that bargain.”

“Don’t name them, father,”—and Dorothy raised her small hand beseechingly. “I know them well enough,”—tears now glistened in her eyes, she turned her head away,—“I never felt that I was so poor and friendless before.” Then kissing the old man, she ran out of the room. Gilbert’s “O shame, father,” and Mrs. Rushmere’s “God bless the dear child,” following her hasty retreat.

Dorothy was deeply moved, but was only too glad to be the means of restoring peace to the belligerents she had left.

It was a few days after the bursting of this domestic thunder-cloud, that Gilbert and Dorothy were thrown alone together. Mr. Rushmere had been called away to the town on business, and the lovers had been working all day in the hay-field. Gilbert was not at all satisfied with the promise Dolly had given to his father; he thought himself slighted and illused. He had been anxiously watching for an opportunity to talk it all over. Dorothy, anticipating his intentions, had carefully kept aloof.

There was no getting out of the way now, and she was forced to listen to the renewal of his suit; and to parry, in the best way she could, his passionate appeals to her to revoke the promise she had given to his father.

They walked silently down the lane together, Gilbert sullen and mortified, Dorothy pitying but resolute. Gilbert at last spoke.

“If you loved me, Dolly, you could not talk about it in that cool way, and sacrifice my happiness to gratify my father’s foolish pride.”

“I mean to keep my word, Gilly. We are both young. We can afford to wait.”

“A pleasant prospect, truly.”

“Is it not better than disobeying your parents, or my leaving them, which I must do, if you continue to press me on this subject.”

“Dorothy, Dorothy! how cold you are. Now don’t preach, and talk to me about duty and patience, and all that. I can’t stand such cant, when my heart is breaking. How can I hold my peace?”

“Then you wish me to go?”

“Dolly! do you mean to drive me mad?”

“Not quite—I think you would be dangerous,”—and Dorothy laughed merrily. Gilbert winced at the joke. She did not wish to provoke him to anger, but to make him see things in a more cheerful light.

“Gilly,” she continued, quite serious now, “do you not see the necessity of yielding to your father’s wishes? It is the only way by which you can even hope to see me your wife. He will surely separate us if you obstinately resist his will. Think how painful it would be to part. How dear mother would grieve after her little Dolly—to say nothing of Gilbert,”—with a sly bewitching glance.

“Mother could not do without me. She could not manage the dairy, and do all the housework alone. Your father will come round by and by. He is sometimes stern, and appears unfeeling, but you know that in the main he has a kind heart. No good can come from opposing him. If you forget your duty, I must not forget mine. Your father wants you to marry a rich wife, as I told you before,—not a poor girl, who has not even a name that she can lawfully call her own.”

“I can remedy that evil, Dorothy, by giving you mine.”

“A gift that will be joyfully accepted, Gilly, when seconded by your father’s approval. Till that can be obtained, let us talk of something else.”

“This subject is nearest my heart. I have no words for any other.” He looked upon her bright face, a dubious expression flittering over his own. “Old men can’t live for ever—he may die!—I shall then be free to please myself.”

Dorothy was shocked. She waved her hands impatiently. “Don’t talk of his death. It is dreadful to anticipate happiness from such a sad event. Father is as likely to live as either of us—is hale and strong—with a back unbent, and a step as firm as your own. Oh, Gilbert, I did not think that you were so selfish. I love the dear old man. God grant that he may live for twenty years!”

“And you expect me to remain single all that time, Dolly,—do you call that reasonable? I will not do it, even to please you.”

“Do not wait for me, Gilly, if you can get a better chance,” said Dorothy, striving to call up a smile upon his gloomy face. Her lover was in no laughing humour.

“Provoking girl. I cannot make you understand the state of my feelings. I shall die, Dolly, if you cruelly persist in refusing to be my wife.”

“Of love! Gilbert?” This was said with a comical air of doubt, and a half smile, which sent a ripple of laughter over the charming face.

“Ay, lass—of love.”

The ripple now broke into a wave of joyous merriment.

“Gilly, did you ever know a man or woman that died for love?”

The lover looked puzzled.

“I can’t exactly say that I have. I have heard of such unfortunates—have seen chaps very miserable about their sweethearts, when they were contrary, or were fond of some one else—and have read about it in books.”

“Do you believe everything you read in books, Gilbert?”

“To be sure I do—what were they written for else? Do you think that a sensible man would waste paper and ink, and his precious time in printing off lies?”

“I am certain, Gilly, that some books are only written to make people laugh. I am no scholar, and can’t read half as well as you, yet I know that much. Do you think the book you were reading out to father the other night—the one you know that you bought of the pedlar—all about the little men and women with the hard names—was a real history?”

“Gulliver’s Travels.”

“Do you believe that true?”

“Of course I do.”

Dorothy clapped her hands and laughed heartily.

“You ought to be a good Christian, Gilbert.”

“Why, lass?”

“For great is your faith. But—hark!—is not that the old clock in the kitchen clapping seven? We must not stand here gossipping any longer, or father will be after us to hurry our motions. Mother has the supper ready by this time. If you are not hungry, I am. I have not yet found out the way to live upon love.”

“Oh, Dolly!” sighed the young man.

Dorothy, already out of hearing, had vanished into the old-fashioned house at the bottom of the hill.

CHAPTER II.

HEATH FARM.

The farm-house was one of those quaint, picturesque old buildings, which have long ago vanished from our public thoroughfares, and is only to be found in remote rural districts, approached by narrow cross-roads. Its high gables and chimneys, its bay windows, projecting several feet beyond the wall, and filled with diamonded panes of glass set in lead, and guarded by heavy iron stanchions, told a tale of past centuries, and carried you back to the feudal times, when every man’s house was literally his castle, and presented a hostile front to the traveller.

A pointed porch, composed of very small dark red bricks, grey and rusty looking from the lichens which encrusted them, sheltered the front entrance from the bleak easterly winds, which swept over a long range of salt marshes, from the sea. A massy oak door opened from the porch, into a long square hall, paved with broad flag stones, in which the family generally assembled to take their meals.

Through that ancient doorway a band of Cromwell’s soldiers had once passed, and been regaled at the huge oak table that held the centre of the floor. Silver flagons had foamed with nut-brown ale; and “success to the brave defenders of England’s rights—and confusion to all tyrants”—had been drank ‘mid uproarious shouts, that made the old rafters overhead, ring again.

Sir Lawrence Rushmere, the head of the family in those days, had been a person of some importance during the great struggle that revolutionized England, and laid the foundation of her present greatness.

A staunch adherent of the stern Protector, he had furnished a number of horses and arms at his own cost, for the use of the Commonwealth, and brought his own strong arm and stout heart to advocate the good cause. For the active part he took in the contest, his descendants had to suffer no small amount of robbery and wrong after the Restoration. The larger portion of their estates were forfeited to the crown; and the old house and two hundred acres of poor heathy waste land was all that remained to the impoverished family.

The old dining-hall had shared in the general decay, and been shorn of all its ancient honours. Like the cobbler’s stall in the old song, it served the present occupants for “kitchen and parlour and all.” It was the room of general resort, into which all the offices pertaining to the farm opened, and in which all the lighter labours of the house, such as spinning and weaving, were carried on.

A small, dark, highly-polished spinning-wheel, such as is used in the eastern counties for converting the fine white flax into thread, occupied a conspicuous place along the wall; and, during the short winter days, kept up a perpetual whirring sound, which formed a pleasant accompaniment to the gay blithe voice of Dorothy, as she sang some local ditty, while the fine thread grew beneath her fingers.

The wide fire-place nearly extended across the upper end of the hall, with its broad hearth-stone, huge iron crank, and hooks, bright brass dogs, and white brick settles, telling of warm yule fires, and abundance of country cheer.

A practical illustration of the same might be seen in the rows of fat hams, and rounds of hung beef that dangled from the beams that crossed the low ceiling: interspersed with strings of onions and savory pot-herbs—and, as if by way of variety, separated by hanks of white and coloured yarn.

A picture in oils, painted upon wood, and by no means a bad specimen of the arts, hung over the carved oak mantel—the half-length portrait of a fine soldierly looking man. This is the soldier of the covenant—the grim Roundhead, Sir Lawrence Rushmere—for so his enemies called him. Look at him well. His bold honest English face deserves a nearer scrutiny. Examine his broad brows, his large clear blue eyes, his firm nose, and resolute mouth, before you call that man a traitor.

He has drawn the sword he holds in his hand in what, after mature consideration, he considers the right cause, and being once fully convinced that it is so, has thrown his whole heart and soul into the struggle. If you can overturn a rock whose roots are embedded in the depths of ocean, you may hope to turn him from his purpose.

This old family portrait is held in great reverence by his last descendant, who bears his name; and though degenerated into a rude half educated tiller of the ancestral acres, Lawrence Rushmere thinks himself a great man, while looking upon the noble portrait of his remote progenitor.

The old high-backed arm-chair, so richly carved, in which the farmer smokes his pipe after the labours of the day are over, is always placed fronting that picture.

He sees a great resemblance between himself and the brave soldier of the covenant, and draws the attention of every stranger that comes to the house to the picture, by asking, “if they do not remark the likeness?” A harmless vanity, which amuses without giving offence, and he generally ends by saying,

“Yes, Sir. That brave knight was my great, great grandfather, and he has often sat in this very chair in which I am sitting now. It shall never go out of the family while there’s a Rushmere left to fill his place.”

Look at those long rows of pewter dishes and platters that grace the shelves. These too are relics of a former age. No doubt the said Sir Lawrence has taken many a good dinner off them. Yet no one points them out as objects worthy of notice, though they are kept as bright and clean as if required for daily use. They have been completely laid upon the shelf half a century ago.

The rest of the furniture of the room is as old as the Protectorate; especially that large Venetian mirror, in its beautiful frame of ebony. What a prize for a modern antiquary.

Poor simple Mrs. Rushmere and Dorothy have not the most remote idea of its value. The old lady thinks it a very becoming glass, which makes people look much handsomer than they really are, and Dorothy contemplates her sweet face in its mysterious depths, and speculates on all who have done the same, and wishes that she could call the sleepers from their graves, and make them pass in review before her.

What a multitude of strange faces, and still stranger fashions, they would bring again to light!

Dorothy sometimes pursues this idea, till she grows afraid of her own conceit, and turns away from the mirror, as if she really saw the spectres she had conjured up.

But the crowning glory of the place is a large dome-shaped cupboard, which fits into a corner of the spacious room, and fills it from the floor to the ceiling. It opens with a single door, the outside of which is a fine picture by some old master, representing the judgment of Solomon. The reverse side, when the door is opened suddenly, calls forth a cry of surprise, and not unusually of terror, from the spectator.

There stands our first father, in the naked deformity of sin, in the very act of eating the forbidden fruit, with a face so full of remorse and agony, that it chills the heart of the gazer with its unmitigated horror.

Though used to this terrible picture from a child, Dorothy could never look at it without a shudder. When Gilbert and she were children, and behaved amiss, Mrs. Rushmere had only to threaten to shut them up in the cupboard with father Adam, and it brought them instantly to their senses.

The shelves of this mysterious piece of furniture were filled with Japan china. Real “chaney”—as good Mrs. Rushmere called it—which, like the ebony-framed mirror, had belonged to the family in its bygone days of wealth and importance. These gorgeous tea-cups were never used but on high-days and holidays, or on the advent of any particular visitors.

Such an unusual event had just taken place, and a mild looking old lady, in a plaited cap and brown stuff gown, was going to and fro, from the open cupboard to the table, arranging some of the exquisite china cups and saucers on a carved wooden tray, and bringing sundry delicate cakes and biscuits, of Dorothy’s own making, from their hidden receptacles, to do honour to the evening meal. The table was covered with a snow-white damask cloth, manufactured by the same skilful hands, and boasted a good supply of fine wheaten bread, and the fresh cheese and butter, for which the Heath Farm had become famous, under the said damsel’s superintendence.

The guest for whose especial benefit all these preparations were made, was a very great person indeed—at least, in the eyes of these simple country folk—and Mrs. Rushmere was all fuss and excitement to set before her the very best the house afforded.

Stephen Watling, a near neighbour and landed proprietor, whose farm joined their own, had died suddenly, in the very prime of life, a few weeks before, and his only sister had come into possession of the property.

From keeping her brother’s house, she had become the mistress of it in her own right, and merged plain Nancy into Miss Watling, or as her country neighbours said,

“Had put on her Sunday gown, and had nothing to do now but hold up her head high, and sup her soup out of a silver spoon.”

The heiress was not a very prepossessing looking individual. The sudden acquirement of wealth had served to increase an innate vulgarity, rendered more conspicuous by an arrogant assumption of superiority. She affected airs of consequence, which made her company everything but agreeable to those who had known her in a subordinate situation.

Miss Watling was on the wrong side of thirty, bony and sharp featured, with small and snaky looking black eyes, a sallow complexion, loud voice, and most repulsive manners. Her affectation of extreme youth was so absurdly ridiculous, that it made her appear older and uglier than she really was.

Ever since her unexpected good fortune, Mr. Rushmere had secretly contemplated Miss Watling as a very eligible wife for his son. He had not as yet dared to broach the subject to that refractory individual, as he dreaded no small amount of opposition—or even to hint at it to his wife, who, he well knew, favoured his attachment to Dorothy, and with whom the rich spinster was no favourite; but he was thinking it over all day long, and calculating the worldly advantages to be derived from the union of the two estates.

It would make Gilbert a rich man at once. As to the difference of age, that was a mere trifle, more than counterbalanced by the lady’s superior wealth.

True, she was very plain—he could not deny that—but beauty, after all, was only skin deep, and would not, according to the homely adage, “buy beef.” His son was a handsome young fellow, and he felt certain that Miss Watling was not indifferent to his personal attractions. It would be a capital match, and his son would be a downright fool to let such an opportunity of securing a rich wife slip through his fingers.

Thus age and avarice can always over-leap barriers which, to the young and romantic, are insurmountable.

From the master of Heath Farm Miss Watling received the most cordial welcome, and was easily persuaded to lay aside her bonnet and shawl, and take tea with the family.

To judge of the lady’s grief by the ultra blackness of her mourning garments, you would have supposed that no gleam of joy could ever enter her afflicted heart again. All crape and bombazine from head to foot, she presented to the spectator a ghastly exterior of hopeless sorrow.

“And so poor Stephen is gone,” said the simple Mrs. Rushmere. “Who would have thought of his leaving us so suddenly? The last time he was here he looked the picture of health and contentment. Well, well,—we must all go some of these days. But the death of such as he—it seems so shocking. A man in the very prime of life—it is surely a great loss to the parish. You, Nancy, who were his only relative, must feel it sorely. The house must be very lonesome to you, wanting the master.”

“It was dreadful, Mrs. Rushmere, to be taken without a minute’s warning, to think of his poor neglected soul. He never cared about religion. He was so entirely taken up with his worldly concerns, it makes me very uncomfortable to think what may become of him in the other world,” said the bereaved sister.

“God is merciful,” sighed the old lady.

“It is of no use trusting to mercy, without repentance,” was the sharp rejoinder, “and he had no time for that.”

“He was a kind man to the poor, Nancy. A good neighbour and a regular church-goer, honest and industrious—let us hope that these qualities will be taken into account. It is not for sinful creatures like us to condemn a man, because it pleased the Almighty to call him suddenly out of the world.”

“Works—mere works,” and Miss Watling shrugged her shoulders emphatically. “For my part, I have no hope of his salvation. If he had faith, he put his light under a bushel, for no one in the house ever saw it. But he is gone, and has left me, a young unprotected female, to struggle alone in this wicked world.”

“Why, surely, Nancy, you be old enough to take care of yourself?” returned the good woman, with more truth in her look and accent than was agreeable to her visitor. “You be some years older than he.”

“You are mistaken, ma’am,” said Miss Watling, “he was a grown up man when I was a little girl at school.”

“Oh, my dear!” cried the provoking old lady, “it is of no use your telling me that. Why, don’t I know all about it. I was with your mother when you were born. It is just thirty-five years ago, last May. You were a sharp cross little thing, and you gave your mother a world of trouble. I have often heard her say, that she never had the sound of your crying out of her ears, or got a whole night’s rest, for the two first years of your life. You were turned of six before Stephen was born. You pouted and sulked, and had a great fight with nurse, for bringing a nasty boy into the house. Don’t I remember it all, and how your father laughed at your tantrums.

“‘Little maid’s jealous of boy,’ he said, ‘she won’t have it all her own way now.’”

Mrs. Rushmere had touched a tender point. She knew that her visitor was dreadfully sensitive about her age; but she was so much disgusted with the unfeeling piece of cant, in which she had just indulged about her brother, that she did it to punish her for her cruelty and hypocrisy.

“You have an excellent memory,” said Miss Watling, wincing under the infliction. “Such reminiscences, however, are neither polite nor agreeable. It would be unbecoming in me to contradict so old a woman as you, for it is impossible for me to recall events which happened in my infancy.”

Miss Watling was angry, but she kept in her wrath. She had no intention of quarrelling with the Rushmeres. She swallowed that bitter pill about her age in the best way she could, and anxious to get rid of the disagreeable dispute, in which she was sure to come off second best, she asked Mrs. Rushmere how she liked her mourning.

“The bombazine,” she observed, “is very fine—the crape, the best I could procure in Storby. As I had to go into mourning for Stephen, I thought I would do the thing genteelly. Besides, shabby black is so mean and unbecoming.”

Mrs. Rushmere glanced coldly at the crape scarf her visitor held up for her inspection.

“It does well enough for those who wear their grief upon their sleeve. One little bit of heart mourning is worth it all.”

Before the wearer of the sables could frame a reply, Dorothy opened the door and looked into the room, but quickly withdrew her head, when she saw by whom it was occupied. Mrs. Rushmere followed her to the door.

“Where is Gilly?”

“Just cleaning himself up a bit, and changing his working slop. He will be here in a minute. Don’t wait for me, mother. I have the cows to milk. I can get my supper by and by.”

The owner of the bright face vanished, Mrs. Rushmere poured out the tea, and the small party gathered about the table.

Gilbert came in presently—glanced coldly at the visitor, made a stiff country bow, and took a seat by his mother, and as far from Miss Watling as he possibly could. He never had liked her when plain Miss Nancy, but since she had got a handle to her name, her airs and affectations had filled him with disgust.

“Do you suffer that young person, Mrs. Rushmere, to call you mother?” asked Miss Watling, with a sneer upon her thin upper lip. “Surely it is taking too great a liberty.”

“Oh, not at all. You forget, Nancy, that she is my adopted daughter, that I look upon her as my own child. The dear knows I could not love her better if she were.”

“Well, my dear madam, there’s no accounting for tastes.” Nancy Watling thought that it was her turn to say something spiteful. “I see nothing to admire in that girl. Is she not the beggar’s brat that Mr. Rushmere picked up upon the heath?”

“So she be,” muttered Lawrence, half aloud from his own chair.

“No fault of hers,” said Gilbert, flushing up. “She has beauty and sense enough to have been the daughter of a king.”

“Rather a vulgar princess,” giggled Miss Watling. “She looks what she was born to be—a servant!”

His mother caught the flash of her son’s eye, and pinched his knee under the table, to keep him quiet; then finding that her hint was not likely to cool down his rising passion, and hearing a pet cat mewing for a morsel of the repast, she screamed out—

“Mind, Gilly! you great blundering fellow. You have trod on pussy’s tail, and she will be sure to scratch you.”

“I’ll take good care of that,” said Gilbert, deceived by his mother’s innocent stratagem, “by turning her out of the room. Dolly has made such a pet of that beast, she has become quite a nuisance.”

He rose and put out the unoffending cat, and peace was once more restored.

The farmer, who had been sitting upon thorns during the dispute, inwardly cursing his wife’s want of tact and plainness of speech, and his son’s rudeness, thought it high time to put in a word or two, and direct the conversation into a new channel.

“What do you intend to do with the farm, Nancy? Will you let it, or carry on the business yourself?”

“Well, my old friend,” said Miss Watling, folding her hands in her lap, and looking down demurely, “that is the difficulty. I am exceedingly puzzled what to do. I came here this afternoon on purpose to consult you, though I knew what a busy time it was with you during the hay harvest. I am so young and inexperienced, and so ignorant of agricultural matters, I should make a poor farmer. I know nothing about cropping lands, milking, or churning. I was given an education quite above such pursuits.”

Gilbert glanced up from the tea-cup he held in his hand, a comical smile passing over his face, though he said nothing. Miss Watling seemed to interpret his thoughts, for she positively looked down and blushed.

Did she forget, at that moment, how often Gilbert had helped her, when a boy, to drive home the cows from the salt marshes, and sat and whistled on the meadow stile, while she milked them—or was she conscious of uttering an untruth?

Gilbert was determined to plague her a little, by jogging her memory.

“Nancy,” he said, “you do yourself great injustice. If you don’t understand the farm business, I don’t know who does. Why, you were always considered the best spinner and weaver in the parish. Remember how often you used to scold me for tangling the yarn, when you were spinning on the great wheel. I was mortally afraid of the big thrashings you threatened me with, and trusted more to my heels than to your generosity and forbearance. Those were jolly times. I wonder you can so easily forget them, and try to thrust such nonsensical fibs down our throats.”

This sally drew forth a general laugh, in which Miss Watling joined as heartily as the rest.

“Gilbert do you call that good manners, to contradict a lady? Where, sir, did you get your schooling?” said the former sharply.

“Among simple country folk, father. I did not mean to contradict Nancy, only to remind her of past times.”

“Oh, I don’t mind what he says, Mr. Rushmere. He was always a saucy boy,” returned the lady, striving to smile pleasantly.

“She takes it better than I expected,” thought Gilbert. “It is as good as a play to hear her attempt to act the fine lady. How polite father is to her. I wonder what they are driving at?”

“You had better let the land, Nancy,” said Rushmere, after a few minutes thought, in answer to her protestations of ignorance as to agricultural matters.

“I won’t do that,” said Miss Watling, briskly, “I should be sure to be cheated by my tenants. A woman can’t follow the plough, or go into the stable, to see if horses are properly cared for, and they are deceived and taken in by every one. Consider my youth and inexperience.”

“Take a husband to help you out of the difficulty.”

“Yes, if I could find a good one.”

“I think I could recommend a smart, honest, good-looking fellow to your notice,” said Rushmere, chuckling and rubbing his hands. “One who can work hard, and who would do justice to the land.”

“Now I hope to goodness father does not mean me. His foolish joke has actually brought colour into the old maid’s face,” thought Gilbert, who listened with intense interest to the conversation, hardly knowing whether to be affronted or amused.

The farmer knew very well what he was about, and did mean him; and was rejoicing in the prospect of a successful negotiation on his behalf.

“I was not thinking of matrimony,” said Miss Watling. “There is plenty of time for that. It is not every one to whom I would trust myself and my property. I assure you, Mr. Rushmere, that I shall be very particular in my choice of a husband. But I was thinking that if I could get a steady industrious young man to farm the place on shares, and look after my private matters, it would answer my purpose better than letting it upon lease.”

Gilbert made a great clatter with his knife and fork, to conceal the laugh that he could not repress. He now saw what Miss Watling was driving at, and he felt certain that he was “the man.”

“Does she think me a goose? She and her affairs may go to Jericho, for what I care,” whispered the unambitious young fellow to his mother.

“To be sure—to be sure, Nancy,” said the farmer. “You are a woman of sense, and see things in the right light. It would be an excellent chance for Gilly. It is high time for him to be doing something for himself. I can hire a labourer in his place, to work the farm. What do you say, Gilbert, to Miss Nancy’s proposal?” This was accompanied by a shrewd look to his son, indicating plainly enough what he expected him to say. “Can you and the lady agree?”

“I fear not, sir. I hate all partnership concerns. I have been too long my own master to submit to a mistress. Besides,” he added, with a droll smile, that showed all his splendid white teeth, “I am too young to fill such a responsible situation.”

“Oh, not at all, Mr. Gilbert,” returned the anxious lady, looking full into Gilbert’s handsome face. “You need not let that stand in the way. Brought up to the business all your life—born, I may say, to be a farmer, you cannot want experience. I should only be too happy to entrust the property to your care. You shall be your own master—have everything your own way. Manage the land to please yourself. Any interference on my part would be quite unnecessary. If you are not too proud to accept my offer, I am sure that we shall get on famously together.”

“Thank you—thank you, Nancy—Miss Watling, I should say,” returned Gilbert, coldly. “In a pecuniary point of view, it might turn out a good thing; and I know several young fellows who would jump at it. I have no wish to enter into such an engagement, and must decline it altogether.”

“Why, sir, why?” cried old Rushmere, in an angry tone. “Are you mad, sir, or a fool?”

“I am my father’s son,” said Gilbert, turning to the door. “It does not suit my inclinations. I have other reasons, which I do not choose to discuss here.”

“If you should change your mind, Mr. Gilbert, let me know,” returned Miss Watling, deeply mortified. “I will defer advertising in the papers until next week.”

“Thank you, Miss Nancy,” said the farmer. “My son is a wilful young man—he will think better of your liberal offer.”

“There is little danger of my changing my mind,” said Gilbert, sulkily. “Miss Watling, you may advertise for a bailiff as soon as you like.”

“Stop, Gilly,” cried his mother, as he was about to leave the room, “it is getting dark, you must see Miss Watling safe over the common.”

Gilbert wished her at the bottom of the brook. He saw plainly that her proposal boded him no good; that his refusal was highly displeasing to his father, and would call forth a storm of anger against himself and Dorothy; and with a very bad grace, he yielded to his mother’s request, to see the cause of the mischief safe to her own door.

“I wish these troublesome women would stay at home and mind their own business,” he muttered, as he stalked on ahead of the lady, who diligently gathered up her glossy sables, to keep them out of the dust of the lane. “What right had she to come and set father and me by the ears together?”

At the farm-gate they met Dorothy, fresh and blooming as a rose, with a pail in each hand foaming to the brim with milk. Gilbert nodded to her as they passed on.

“You have excellent cows, Mr. Gilbert,” remarked Miss Watling, scowling at the pretty milk-maid, “and a capital dairywoman.”

“Yes, everything depends upon that,” said the young man.

“You, of course, consider her a treasure.” Miss Watling had quickened her steps, and was now at his side, and as she spoke she looked spitefully back at Dorothy.

“Of course I do. We derive much profit from her skill. The farm yields but a poor return in grain. We depend mainly on the flocks and herds. How many cows do you milk now, Miss Nancy?”

“I milk! what a question!”

“Ah, I suppose you have forgotten how to do it,” and Gilbert looked mischievously at her, from under the broad brim of his coarse straw hat, which had been plaited and put together by Dorothy’s dainty fingers. “I remember the time when we were all young together,”—and he laughed—“that is, before you came in for the big fortune, when you thought it a great compliment to be called the best milker in the parish. I should like to hear you talk like a sensible woman.”

“But times are altered since then, Gilly,” said Miss Watling confidentially, and slipping her arm within his. “I can still milk the cow, or act the lady, with old friends. But one has, you know, to assume a little dignity, or no one would suspect me of being a rich lady.”

“Still less with the dignity—which suits you as little as a court dress would me. But I respect you now, Nancy, for speaking the honest truth. I thought you had given yourself up to the other thing altogether. Look you, Nancy. I believe you wish to be my friend. Will you be angry with me, if I speak the honest truth?”

Miss Watling’s heart fluttered a little.

“What can you want to say to me, Gilly—Is it any thing very particular?”

“Yes—very particular, at least as far as I am concerned.”

“About the proposal I made to your father?” with a smile.

“The same.”

“You mean to accept it?” speaking joyfully, and pressing his arm tenderly.

“Oh, no, no,” cried Gilbert, shrinking from the caress, “quite the reverse. I decline it at once, and for ever; and I beg, Nancy, that you will never broach the subject to me, or to father, again. Old folks don’t see with our eyes, or feel as we feel; they always forget when they were young themselves. The spring and summer of life is gone with them, and the autumn with its golden fruit is all they care about, and wish us to procure at any cost. What does a young fellow want with money, while he is full of health and warm blood, and has enough to enjoy himself?”

“But why should you refuse a good offer?” said Miss Watling, only half comprehending the meaning of Gilbert’s roundabout way of introducing a disagreeable subject.

“Simply, because it is not a good one for me. I don’t like it, and will have none of it. I am happy where I am, and don’t want to change my situation.” He stopped suddenly, and took Miss Watling’s hand. “Will you be my friend, Nancy?”

“Can you doubt it, Gilbert?”

“Well, then, I love Dorothy Chance.”

Miss Watling dropped her hand, as if it had come in contact with a hot coal.

“Love—Dorothy—Chance!” and the hard mouth writhed convulsively. Gilbert’s eyes were bent upon the ground; he did not see the twitching of the malignant face; and was not even conscious that she had withdrawn the black kidded hand from his own—or the conversation would have come to a sudden stop.

“Yes,” he continued, “I love Dorothy Chance with all my heart and soul, and mean to make her my wife as soon as a good opportunity offers. Father don’t like the match, though he likes the girl. He loves money, and he wants me to kneel down with him and worship the golden calf. I won’t do it. If I can’t have Dolly, I’ll have no one else. That’s the plain downright truth, Nancy Watling. Do you wish me to take your farm on shares now?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Gilbert Rushmere,” drawing herself up, with a withering air of spurious dignity. “If you can forget your good old family, and stoop so low as to marry a girl that your father picked out of the dirt, you may stay at home with her. I don’t want to have anything to do with you. I don’t wonder at Mr. Rushmere not giving his consent to such a vulgar connection. It is enough to break the honest heart of the poor old man. His only son, too—the last of his name. Mr. Gilbert Rushmere, you astonish me!”

“I have heard all these arguments before,” said Gilbert, sorry for his misplaced confidence, when it was too late. “I consider them mere words, and take them for what they are worth. I thought it would be best to act like a man, and give you my real reasons for rejecting your kind offer. I have satisfied my conscience, and I leave you to think of me as you like. But here we are at your gate, Nancy, so I will wish you good night.”

Nancy Watling deigned no reply to his farewell salutation, but walked indignantly across her moonlighted lawn. She felt mortified, disappointed, and decidedly belligerent. True, she had not made him an offer of marriage, but it was tantamount to it; and he had despised both her and her money, and all for a penniless black-eyed dairy-maid, who might be his father’s daughter for aught he knew to the contrary.

It was a strange story, at any rate, his finding the dead woman and the child out on the heath. She remembered what the village gossips had whispered about it, at the time, and she determined to publish a new edition of the long-forgotten scandal.

She would be revenged on Gilbert, for the insult he had passed upon her, let it cost what it might. As for Gilbert, what need she care about him—if he did not accept her and her farm, another would. He was a rude brute, a vulgar, low fellow, to treat any lady as he had that night treated her. If he married that base-born creature Dorothy, no respectable person would ever enter the house.

While such uncharitable thoughts were passing through Nancy Watling’s small, narrow mind, Gilbert, glad to be rid of his disagreeable charge, took his homeward path across the heath. Sometimes he stopped—not to admire the cloudless beauty of the sky—he was a careless observer of the beauties of nature—but to put his hands to his sides, and laughed with uncontrollable merriment.

He was amused at his own cleverness—rejoicing over the adroit manner in which he had got rid of the odious woman, and her self-interested offers of service.

“I am rid of her at last. I’m thinking she’ll come after me no more. I don’t approve of women giving such broad hints to us men folk. It was as good as asking me to be her husband. I can tell black Nancy that she’s no wife for Gilbert Rushmere. Does she think that I would sell myself to age, ill-temper and ugliness, for all the money in the Bank of England? I would rather go to church with Dolly in homespun, than ride in a carriage beside that shrivelled piece of tanned leather. How Dolly will laugh when I tell her how affectionately the old thing hugged my arm! A partnership with her, ha, ha! is it not rare fun to disappoint her matrimonial speculations?”

To Dorothy, this visit of Miss Watling’s to the farm proved everything but a laughing matter.

CHAPTER III.

A FAMILY QUARREL.

Dorothy found Mr. Rushmere chafing with passion, when she returned to the big room to take her simple supper of bread and milk. Gilbert’s conduct to Miss Watling had cut him to the quick, and thrown down in a moment the fine castle in the air which he had been for weeks building for his son’s especial benefit.

The sight of Dorothy, whom he looked upon as the real cause of his bitter disappointment, stirred his generally sluggish nature to its depths, and his rage burst out with the vehemence of a volcano, caring nothing for the mischief and ruin which might follow its desolating course.

He upbraided her with inveigling the affections of his son, and making him rude and undutiful to his parents—reiterating his threat of sending her off to seek her own living, and cursing the unlucky hour he brought her to the house.

He said so many hard and cruel things, that Dorothy was roused at last. Leaving her supper untasted upon the table, she went across the room to Mrs. Rushmere, who was standing before the window, with her back to her husband, weeping bitterly. Dorothy put her arm across her shoulder, and spoke in a low voice, meant to be calm, but which trembled with suppressed emotion.

“Mother, I am no longer wanted here. I will go and seek service elsewhere to-morrow.”

“Dorothy, my child, you are not in earnest. You cannot mean what you say?”

“Father wishes it. I believe that it will be better for all parties. You are my only friends; the only parents I have ever known. God, who reads my heart, knows the love I feel for you both, but—but,”—and here poor Dolly broke down, and flinging herself into the kind woman’s outstretched arms, they mingled their tears together.

“She is right—quite right,” said the old man, too angry to be touched by the grief of the weeping women. “She has been here long enough. It is time she should go.”

“And where is the poor child to go?” asked the wife, pressing Dorothy to her warm maternal breast. “Have you the feelings of a man, Lawrence, after she has shared our home for so many years, and been to us a dutiful and loving daughter, to turn her out upon the wide, wide world.”

“She shall go,” was the dogged reply to his wife’s appeal.

“Don’t distress yourself, mother, on my account,” whispered Dorothy. “I am young and strong. I can work for my living. Never fear. God will raise me up friends, and find me another home.” Then turning to Mr. Rushmere, she addressed him with the calm dignity which was natural to her.

“Father, after all the benefits I have received from you we must not part in anger. If I have been in fault, God knows that I have erred through ignorance, that it was wholly unintentional on my part. I acknowledge now, what I did not understand before, that I am not a fit mate for your son. I have given up all idea of being his wife. Speak to me, father. Say that you forgive me, and let us part in peace.”

She slid down on her knees before the stern old man, as he sat sullenly in the big arm-chair, and looked imploringly into his face. Her rosy cheeks were deadly pale now, and wet with the tears that flowed unceasingly from her large black eyes.

Rushmere felt rather ashamed of the violent language he had used—he softened a little, and replied in a gentler tone,—

“Dolly, you are a good girl. You know I love and respect you, but you cannot marry my son. I should feel degraded if you were Gilbert’s wife.”

The blood rushed in a hot tide into the girl’s pale wet face, and yet she shivered as if an arrow had pierced her heart. With a low moan her head sunk upon the old man’s knee, and she shook and trembled with violent emotion.

“Go,” and Rushmere laid his large hand upon the bent head, with all its glossy ebon ringlets—“Go, and God bless you.”

Dorothy rose from her knees.

“Your wishes shall be obeyed, father. I will go, as you desire it. Only let me stay this night beneath the roof that has sheltered me so long. I will seek a new home to-morrow. And now, good night. Oh,” she cried, in a tone of bitter anguish, “how hard it is to part from all we love. To bid you good night for the last time, in the dear old home.”

Their eyes met. The old man drew her down to him and kissed her.

“You must go, Dorothy. I am sorry to part with you, but I do so for Gilbert’s sake.”

“Who talks of parting? What does all this mean?” cried Gilbert, who had been standing some minutes unobserved in the doorway, hurrying forward. “Who is going away? What is the matter with mother and Dorothy, that they are crying like babies?”

“Gilbert,” said Mrs. Rushmere, sorrowfully, “it is Dorothy who is going to leave us.”

“Where is she going?”

“To see service.”

“Good God! Mother, are you all mad? What will you do without her? How can you suffer her to go?”

“I cannot prevent it, Gilbert. It is your father’s doing. Ask him.”

Gilbert turned wrathfully, and faced the old man. They glared upon each other like two angry wild beasts.

“So, this is your doing, sir. You thrust an unprotected young girl out of your house, because she happens to be dear to me! Now, mark my words, for I mean to abide by what I say. If Dorothy is driven from her home on my account, I leave it also—leave it, never to return while you live. Don’t cry, mother. Don’t shake your head, Dorothy. I am in earnest—so help me God!”

“What do you say to that, Lawrence?” cried Mrs. Rushmere. “Do end this disgraceful scene and listen to reason.”

“I say,” and Rushmere spoke in a voice of thunder, “that he is an undutiful son, a disgrace to his family; that he may go as soon as he likes; the sooner the better; that I never wish to set my eyes upon him again. That’s what I say, dame!”

He shook his fist in Gilbert’s face, and his brow grew dark with violent passion.

Dorothy glided round to the back of the chair. She was afraid of his falling down in a fit. She now fronted her angry lover, and she silently pointed down to his agitated father, and made imploring gesture for him to leave the room.

Gilbert read her meaning in her terrified eyes. He was determined not to go, but to tell his father a bit more of his mind.

“Speak to him, dear mother; he will heed what you say.”

Mrs. Rushmere shook her head sorrowfully.

“It is of no use attempting to reason with angry men. It only makes matters worse. To contradict an obstinate man in a rage, is to add fuel to the fire. Go to your bed, Gilbert, your father will forget all about it to-morrow.”

“I don’t care whether he does or not. My mind is made up. If he is indifferent to my happiness, and unjust to the woman I love, I will no longer work like a slave for him. From this hour I am my own master.”

He turned and held out his hands to Dorothy.

“Come, Dorothy, darling, come with me. Let us seek our fortunes in the world together. Here we have no longer a home. See if this strong arm cannot win one for you.”

“I have been the cause of all the trouble, Gilbert. Be reconciled to your father, and let me go my way in peace.”

“How! Do you reject my offer, Dorothy?” He spoke in tones of suppressed anger. “You surely will not refuse to become my wife!”

“Yes—under existing circumstances. I will never bring sorrow under the roof that has sheltered me,” said Dorothy, firmly, without daring to raise her eyes to her lover’s face.

“Look at me, Dorothy. Look at me straight in the eyes, and then tell me that you mean what you say.”

Dorothy raised her eyes to his, swimming in tears, her lips quivered, but she replied, in a voice more decided than before.

“Gilbert Rushmere, I cannot be your wife. It is cruel to ask me, in the face of your father’s anger.”

“It is enough.” He folded his arms and smiled disdainfully. “I shall not ask you again. I have sacrificed everything for you—and this is my reward.”

He went up to Mr. Rushmere, and held out his hand. He was desperately angry with Dorothy.

“You hear her, father. She has refused to be my wife.”

“She’s a sensible girl,” said the farmer.

“Perhaps she is,” and Gilbert laughed bitterly. “May she never have cause to repent of her decision. A different course, however, might have made us happy.”

“You have agreed to give him up then, Dorothy?” said Rushmere, eagerly eyeing the trembling girl.

Dorothy did not speak. Words rose to her lips, but to have given them utterance would have choked her. Gilbert answered in her stead.

“Yes, sir. She has yielded to your wishes—and we have nothing more to say to each other. Are you satisfied?”

“Quite, quite, my son,” and the old man grasped his hand warmly. A slight sound, like a suppressed sob, broke the stillness of the great hall. Gilbert looked round. Dorothy stood firm and erect behind his father’s chair, her right hand grasping the frame, her large eyes wide open and fixed on vacancy, her features rigid, her face as white as that of a stone statue.

His heart smote him. He knew the purity of her motives, he saw how she suffered, but his pride and vanity were alike wounded;—he would not yield an inch—he would punish her for the decided manner in which she had rejected his offer. He did not doubt her love, but in that evil mood he had ceased to love her himself.

“Gilbert, I am glad you acknowledge the folly of your conduct,” said the farmer, breaking the painful silence. “When you don’t see the girl, you will soon forget her, take my word for it. Out of sight out of mind. There’s much truth in those old proverbs.”

Gilbert again glanced up at Dorothy, to see how this speech affected her.

She was no longer in the room.

A few minutes later, the tramp of a horse’s hoofs sounded on the pavement of the court-yard. Dorothy had sought refuge in her own chamber from a scene she was no longer able to endure. She had sunk down beside the bed, her head was buried in the pillow; she was sobbing wildly. That sound broke painfully upon her ear—it was the climax of her agony. She started to her feet. She sprang to the window, and flung wide the casement, stretching out her arms with a despairing gesture, as she caught a glimpse of Gilbert’s retreating figure.

“Gilly, Gilly!” she cried, “come back and speak to me. Tell me that we do not part in anger. That you will forgive your poor broken-hearted Dolly!”

The gate swung back on its hinges—the figure had vanished into the night.

“He is gone—he does not hear me,” sobbed the distracted girl. “I shall never, never see him again.”

She threw herself on the floor, and prayed that God would end her life—that she might die in the old house and never see the light of another day. This was her first great life-trial. She had tried to bear up against it, to submit with patience to her bitter grief, but her fortitude had all deserted her now, and she wept with such an abandonment of sorrow, as if her whole being would dissolve in tears.

This could not last long. After awhile she sat upon the floor, and tried to comprehend the misery that had overwhelmed her; to think more calmly of her situation, and the forlorn prospects of the morrow; to hope, that her fears respecting Gilbert were unfounded; that he had ridden out on pleasure or business; perhaps, to get over his passion by violent exercise. She had known him to try that remedy before. It was foolish of her to look only at the dark side of things.

“He could not leave her in that way if he loved her as she loved him. No, no, it was cruel of her to imagine such a thing. It was not to be wondered at that he was vexed with her for refusing him, before his parents, as she had done. But how could she help it, without breaking her promise to his father. Surely he must remember that, and exonerate her for her seeming indifference.”

And then, her mind wandered away to her mother; and she wondered why she should stand between her and her marriage with Gilbert.

She had often heard the farmer tell the story—and a sad story it was, and never failed to bring the tears into her eyes; but she had never connected the tale with disgrace or infamy, or thought it possible that she could be blamed for the poverty, or even guilt, of parents she had never known.

How could any one prove that her mother was a bad woman, or that she was base born? Was not that mother’s wedding ring, at that moment, pressing her finger? She, Dorothy, might be the child of sorrow, but who should dare to say that she was the offspring of shame?

The poor girl’s heart began to warm towards this mysterious unknown mother; all her womanly instincts were aroused to defend her memory; and she felt indignant that Mr. Rushmere, who had acted so nobly by her, and her orphan child, should be the first to cast a reproach upon her.

In spite of her simple reasoning, Dorothy keenly felt that the dubious circumstances in which she had been found, must give a colouring to her future life; and would not prove a letter of recommendation in helping her on in the world.

While she was pondering these things in her heart, there came a gentle tap at the door, and Mrs. Rushmere, in her night-cap and bed-gown entered.

“What, Dorothy, darling, not abed yet. Alack, I cannot sleep a wink myself, so as sorrow loves sympathy, I came to have a chat with you. Do you know that Gilbert is gone? He took his own young horse, and rode off at full speed. What can he be after at this time o’night? Still, child, I am right glad that he is gone, and given father time to get over his anger. When he comes back, which he will early in the morning, the old man will have forgotten it all—for he dearly loves his son, though he be cross with him, and with us all, now and then.”

“But will Gilbert return?” and Dorothy fixed her eyes, with such an eager inquiring glance on Mrs. Rushmere’s face, that the startled little woman said, “it made her blood run cold.”

“Return?—Yes, that he will. I have no fears about him. The hay must be carted to-morrow. Gilly never neglects his business. Besides, he shook hands with his father, and seemed reconciled to giving you up. It’s all right between them now. You had better go off early in the morning, Dolly, before he gets sight of you, or the love fit will come on stronger than ever.”

“Ah, dear mother,” sighed the girl, terribly afraid that her lover was lost to her for ever, “no fear of that.” Her head sunk between her hands for a few minutes, but, recovering herself, she turned quickly to Mrs. Rushmere.

“I cannot go before I have milked the cows, and done the morning’s work for you. Oh, mother, mother, what shall I do without you? Who is there in the world to love and care for me now?”

“Don’t fret, Dolly dear, and go to cry the eyes out of your head. You look as pale as a ghost. Things never be so bad, as at first sight they seem.”

“True, mother,” said Dorothy, perseveringly wiping away the rebellious tears, which would find their way down her pale cheeks, do what she could to hinder them, “but what is to become of me? Where am I to go?”

“I have been planning that for you, dear child,” returned the kind woman. “You know, my old friend, Mrs. Barford, who lives six miles over the heath, on the other side of Hadstone. She will be right glad to take you in for my sake. My mother and her mother were first cousins, and Jenny and I went to school together. She is none of your idle ill-natured gossips, but a real kind motherly woman.”

“I like the old lady, but her son and his wife are very rough people,” suggested Dorothy.

“Never you mind that. You go to Mrs. Barford; she owns the farm, and is the mistress, and tell her all your trouble. Say that I sent you. She knows you too well to suspect you of coming to her with a lie in your mouth, or that you have done anything amiss.”

“But how do you know, for certain, that she will take me in?” asked Dorothy.

“Well, Dolly, dear, I have heard that you can never be sure of anything in this world, but if Jane Barford is living I feel no doubt about it. Her daughter-in-law is only just about, after her confinement, and has a baby to take care of, and they are not well able to keep a girl. Jane does little herself in the house, and I know that they will be right glad of your help during the busy time.”

“Is the younger Mrs. Barford a kind person?”

“I know almost nothing about her. She looks good-natured enough at church, beside her husband and her fine little boys. She was only a servant girl, up at the Hall Farm, when Joe Barford married her, which was a sore vexation to his mother, who had been decently educated at the same school with me, while this poor ignorant lass did not know a letter in the book. She is not a very good housewife either. She is tidy enough, but very thriftless—mean, without the power of being economical. Joe made but a poor match, and though he works hard enough himself, they can barely make both ends meet, after paying Mrs. Barford her thirds.”

This short history was everything but satisfactory to Dorothy. She seemed to comprehend in a moment the discomfort and misrule in the Barford establishment.

“Mother,” she said, after a few minutes thought, “I do not think I shall suit these Barfords, and I don’t think, from your description of them, that they will suit me. Had I not better seek a place at Storby?”

“Dolly, you be ignorant of town life, and know nothing about town work. You go to Mrs. Barford, as I tell you, and bide with her, till I can send you word from home. Things mayn’t be so pleasant as they be here, but you make yourself as comfortable as you can. Your father is not a hard hearted man; when his passion is over he will be the first to want you back. He will only find out your real value, Dolly, when you are gone. As for me, darling, you are as dear to the old mother as her own flesh and blood. Don’t you know that?”

Dorothy’s arms closed tightly round Mrs. Rushmere’s neck, as she faintly whispered,

“Yes, ah, yes. It needs no words to tell me that.”

“Then keep up your heart, child, and trust in God. All things done by Him happen for the best. Maybe I shall yet live to see you Gilly’s wife.”

This last remark recalled poor Dolly’s grief, and she fell to crying worse than before.

“Now, go to bed, Dolly, and try to get a little sleep. Remember what the good book says—‘Sorrow may last for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’ We may be worriting ourselves for nothing after all.”

The kind honest sympathy of this true friend roused Dorothy from her stupor of grief. Raising her head from Mrs. Rushmere’s supporting arms, she promised to attend to all her injunctions, and reconcile her mind to her altered lot. The women parted for the night, and Dorothy laid her aching temples on her pillow, and soon fell into a deep and dreamless slumber.

CHAPTER IV.

DOROTHY’S DEPARTURE.

The sun had just risen when Dorothy unclosed her eyes. Everything looked bright on earth, and in the heavens, in the early flush of that lovely June morning. The perfume of the honeysuckle and briar rose, that clasped the old porch in their fragrant embrace, and climbed to the very roof of the house, mingled deliciously with the scent of the new mown hay. Who, looking abroad into the sweet face of nature, at that pure still hour, which an old poet has felicitously named “the bridal of the earth and sky,” could believe in the wickedness and depravity of the human portion of her children.

In great cities, enveloped in the miasma of moral depravity, this depressing conviction comes home to the heart of the thinking and religious inhabitants, where not an hour in the diurnal circle is unmarked by crime,—it is only in the solitude of the country that nature puts on a virgin grace, and man forgets in her august presence the stern reality and withering blight of sin.

In spite of the great sorrow that lay at her heart, the earth had not lost the freshness of Eden for Dorothy, and she had still faith in the goodness of her fellow-creatures. She sprung lightly from her bed, sorry that the birds had not roused her an hour sooner, for she had a great amount of work to do that morning.

She had forgotten all the anguish of the previous night, until it was brought back to her remembrance, by the dull aching sense of weariness that pressed upon her heart and brain.

Slowly and painfully she realized it all.

The reflection of her pale face in the glass startled her. The sunken eyes, the tangled masses of raven hair, the look of exhaustion and hopeless woe.

Can that be Dorothy—that wan image of despair? The laughing happy country girl—what havoc a few hours has made in that gay warm heart!

A new life had dawned upon her; the bright and beautiful had vanished, and clouds and storms had gathered over the glad morning of her existence. She must now strengthen her heart for the great moral conflict between good and evil, and fight vigorously with the cares and temptations of an evil world.

“God help me!” she cried, “I feel a poor, weak, miserable creature, I that thought myself so strong. May He give me courage to bear up against this great trial, and teach me to lead an honest, virtuous life.”

Brief as the prayer was, it gave her strength, and she set about her usual morning work with energetic earnestness of purpose, anxious to do all in her power for Mrs. Rushmere, before she left her.

The cows were milked, the poultry fed, a large cheese made and in the press, and the week’s butter churned and dressed for market before the family met at the breakfast table.

Dorothy cast a hurried glance round the room. Her heart sank within her. Gilbert’s place was vacant, and the fear that had distressed her so much on the previous night returned with redoubled force. Then, again, hope whispered, “He is in the stable preparing the horses for the field. Maybe he has gone to the meadow, to see if the hay is dry enough for carting. He would come, at any rate, to bid her good bye.”

“How we shall miss our good, industrious Dorothy,” said Mrs. Rushmere, to the farmer, as he took his seat at the table. “She has been hard at work for me since daybreak. I shall never find another to supply her place.”

“Aye, wife, but Gilly would never be settled as long as she bides here. When the plough has been put into the field, it is of no use drawing back from the furrow.”

“As a man sows, so shall he reap,” replied Mrs. Rushmere. “The crop of trouble you have been sowing for yourself and me, Lawrence Rushmere, is likely to produce a plentiful harvest. You have made two young happy creatures, very miserable. May God forgive you, but I can’t say amen to your doings. I have spoken my mind, however, upon the subject, and now we will say no more about it. Dolly, it is time that you were upon the road: the day is hot and the path dusty, and you have a long lonely walk before you.”

Dorothy cleared off the table, and went to her own room to pack up her clothes, and prepare for her journey. There was no finery in her wardrobe, a few neat cotton gowns for summer wear, and homespun for the winter—that was all.

She felt very sorrowful as she smoothed the homely garments, and placed them in a small leathern trunk. “Oh,” she thought, “shall I ever be happy again?” and she wished, though she felt it to be a sin, that she had died with her poor forlorn mother on the heath. Before her little preparations were completed, she was joined by Mrs. Rushmere.

“Don’t cumber yourself, Dolly, with that big trunk. You look tired now—that heavy luggage will break you down altogether. Put a few necessaries into a bundle, just for present use. You will not be away long, take my word for it. I will send the cow-boy over with the trunk, should I prove a false prophet. Father is coming round. He seems restless and uneasy like. He feels that he has been too hasty, but like most of the men folk, is too proud to own it. I should not wonder, before the end of the week, that he goes to fetch you back himself.”

“I am proud too, mother. Perhaps I may refuse to come.”

Mrs. Rushmere looked at her in surprise.

“Dorothy, don’t say that.”

The glance of the hitherto meek girl filled her with wonder.

“Yes, dear mother, and I mean it too. The trodden worm, I have heard, will turn again—and my heart has been trodden into the dust. Our first parents never returned to Eden after they had been driven out.”

“Lauk-a-mercy, child, you don’t mean to compare yourself with them, or call this poor place Paradise? They would have been glad to come back, had God seen fit to recall them.”

“Mother,” said Dorothy, solemnly, “there is only one thing which could bring me back to Heath Farm. If Gilbert should not return.”

“Gilbert not return! Whatever put such an unlucky thought into your head, Dorothy. Return, aye, surely he will, if he be not back already. It is such a beautiful day for the carting. He would never suffer that fine crop of hay to be spoiled; and father, with no one here to help him to bring it in. He would never act so foolishly to spite you. No, no, he will be home soon. I have no fear of that.”

Dolly was less sanguine. She did fear it. A vague presentiment of evil was at that moment pressing heavily on her heart. She knew that Gilbert, when roused to anger, was stubborn and wilful; that the spirit of resistance was as strong in him as in the old man; that he was but a second edition of his father. But she saw it was best to keep her fears to herself; that what she had already hinted, had frightened the kind little woman, and filled her with alarm about her son.

“It is a pity that father had not kept in his displeasure until after the busy time was over,” she said, in her simplicity. “It is so hard to leave you, mother, to do all the summer work. I hardly know how you will get through it alone.”

“Passion costs money, child, but it is of no use talking about it now. I shall have to hire a girl in your place. I am too old for the stooping and lifting. Oh,” she continued, with a sigh, “what a pleasant world it would be, if it were not for the bad tempers of the people in it. I hear Lawrence calling to us in the court below. You had better go to him, Dolly, and bid him good bye, before he takes the team to the field. Dear, dear, what can keep Gilly? What shall we do without him?” and she cast a dreary look from the window up the road.

Dorothy took up her bundle, and embracing Mrs. Rushmere, with her whole heart and soul in that last kiss, ran down into the paved court below.

She found Mr. Rushmere busy adjusting and sorting divers pieces of harness.

“Confound the fellow,” he muttered, in vexed tones, “for taking himself off, just at a time when he knew that I would miss him most. What the deuce has he done with Dobbin’s dutfin?”

“It’s in the barn, father,” cried Dorothy, in a cheerful voice. “He took it there to mend it. I will get it for you in a minute.”

Away ran the light-footed girl, ever ready to render a service to the old man, and to shield Gilbert from blame. In a few minutes she returned, with the missing article in her hand.

The farmer watched her as she came up, and a deep regretful sigh burst from his lips.

“Well, ‘tis a bonny lass. I don’t blame Gilbert much for loving the like o’ her. She is pretty enough, and good enough, to be my daughter—but, then,—her mother. God knows what she may have been—and what’s bred in the bone, they say, is hard to get out of the flesh. She was handsome too—if she had not been so wasted with misery—though the girl is no more like her than I am like the moon. She was fair as a lily, with bright golden hair, and bore no resemblance to this dark-eyed, black-browed wench. If I could only think that she had been an honest woman, I should not care. But there’s the difficulty. My Mary thinks me a hard-hearted man. I know she does, and that I have acted unkindly by Dolly, but I have done it for the best, and she will think as I do by and by. It is right that she should quit. I have kept her these many years for naught. She can now take care of herself.”

“Father, I am going. May God bless and reward you for all your kindness to me,” said Dolly, with quivering lips, as she dropped the piece of harness at his feet.

“Stop,” cried Rushmere, putting his hand into his pocket, and drawing forth a heavy yellow leathern bag, “you must not leave me without a penny in your purse, to buy you a night’s lodging,” and he slipped three guineas into her hand, and drew her towards him and kissed her.

Dorothy’s first impulse was to return the gold. She thought better of it. The sum was not large, and he could afford to give it, and she had honestly earned every fraction of it. She might want a little money; she had none of her own, so she thanked him heartily for his gift, bade him good bye, and walked away as fast as she could, to hide her tears.

Her path to Mrs. Barford’s farm lay down the sandy lane, and then back of the house, six miles over the heath in a westerly direction, and away from the coast.

The morning was pretty far advanced, and she could not reach her place of destination before noon. She had many misgivings in her mind about these Barfords, and what sort of reception she was likely to receive from them.

She did not know much about them. She had seen and spoken with them occasionally, both at market and at church. They were a grade below the Rushmeres; were without even the plain education that she had received at the village school, and spoke the common dialect of the county. Mrs. Barford had held a better position, she had heard her mother say, but she had made a low marriage—her son a lower one still; and though the farm was good, and they enjoyed a tolerable competence, they were not received into the society of the yeomen of a better class. They were no favourites with Gilbert, who had pronounced them decidedly vulgar—a common term of reproach in the mouths of persons who have themselves no great claims to gentility.

Mrs. Barford might, or she might not, believe Dorothy’s statements; the latter began to think that the whole affair would have a bad look, and justly excite the suspicion that she had done something wrong, or Mrs. Rushmere, who was known to be very fond of her, would not have consented to her leaving them in such an abrupt manner.

Dorothy’s mind had been too much agitated by the sudden blow that had fallen upon her, to give her position a calm consideration; and now, when she thought it over, she inwardly shrunk from the disagreeable investigation that it involved. If she had not promised Mrs. Rushmere to follow her advice, her path would have been to the sea-port town, about two miles distant, and not over the heath to the west of Hadstone. It was, however, of no use drawing back now, and with a heavy heart she commenced her journey.

As she proceeded up the lane, she paused at the stile where she and Gilbert had held their last conversation. She fully expected to meet him there, and lingered for some minutes under the shade of the ash tree, and looked anxiously up and down the road, wondering how he could let her leave the farm, without intercepting her, to say a last good-bye.

Poor Dorothy. How bitterly she repented having sacrificed so much, out of a foolish sense of gratitude to his father. Ought not Gilbert’s happiness, she reasoned with herself, to have been dearer to her than all the world beside? Could a heavier punishment have fallen upon her, by yielding to his request to become his wife, than she was now called upon to endure?

The old man could only have turned her out of doors for disobeying him, and he had done that, and left her friendless in the world, without Gilbert’s love to console, or Gilbert’s arm to win for her another home. Had not her very integrity brought about the thing she dreaded? And when she thought on these things she wept afresh.

The next turning in the lane would hide the old house from her view. She stopped and looked at it through her blinding tears. It was the home that had sheltered her orphan childhood; she had never slept a night from under its moss-grown roof. Its walls contained her world—all that she most loved and prized on earth. It was a bitter agony to bid it farewell, perhaps for ever—to see the dear familiar faces and objects no more.

And Gilly—what had become of him? Fear knocked loudly at her heart, whenever she asked of it this agitating question. She looked for him at every field-gate, at every turning of the lane, and could not believe it possible that they were thus to part.

Climbing the steep hill that led up to the heath, an old Scotch terrier, who had been her playmate from a child, sprang suddenly to her side with a joyful bark.

“You, Pincher, would not let me go without saying good-bye. You, at any rate, will miss poor Dolly, if she be forgotten by all beside.”

Pincher looked wistfully up in her face, and seemed to understand that something was wrong with his mistress. Was he conscious of its deadly paleness—of the tears that flowed down it? He certainly had never seen that joyous laughing face look so sad before, and redoubled his caresses, to assure her of his sympathy, whining and licking her hands.

In moments of utter bereavement who has not felt, to the heart’s core, the tender attachment of a faithful dog? It is only when overwhelmed with sorrow and forsaken by the world, that we know how to value the humble love that abides with us till death.

“Poor brute,” sighed Dorothy, patting his shaggy head, “we have had many happy days together, old dog, and I meant to take care of you and cherish you as long as you lived, but it seems that we must part. Go home, Pincher. Go home, sir. It is not lucky for anything to love me.”

Pincher had no idea of going home. For once the dear familiar voice commanded in vain. The old dog stuck to her like a burr, and she had not the heart to take up a stick to enforce obedience. So the twain walked on very lovingly together, Dorothy gazing sadly and fondly at every well-known object in her path.

The brook babbled to her like an old friend; the blue harebells nodded their heads in the breeze, and silently seemed to say good-bye. She gathered a bunch of the lovely flowers, and hid them away, on her bosom, to remind her, when far away, of all she had loved and lost.

Crossing the heath, her pathway lay near the spot where she had been found, clinging to the bosom of her dead mother. She turned off the road to look at it. The golden furze bushes glowed as brightly and smelt as sweetly in the morning air, as when Lawrence Rushmere first lifted her up from her cold bed of wet heather.

She had often visited the spot before. Now, it seemed invested with a peculiar interest. Like that unknown mother, she too had become a houseless wanderer, seeking for a home and shelter from a hard unfeeling world.

“Poor mother,” she thought, “in my days of careless happiness, how little I thought of you,—still less could I comprehend the sorrow that crushed the life out of your heart. Now I feel—I understand it all. Shall I never know your sad history, or who was my father? It hardly ever struck me before, that I must have had a father. Who? and what was he? Is he living or dead? Oh, shall I ever, ever solve the cruel mystery?”

A chill seemed to strike through her. She checked these useless inquiries; they gave rise to painful and humiliating conjectures. It was better, perhaps, that she should never be enlightened, and drying her tears, she regained the path across the heath and hurried on.

CHAPTER V.

DOROTHY’S NEW FRIENDS.

It was noon when Dorothy entered the gate that opened upon the grass-grown avenue, that led up to the farm-house. It was flanked on either side by a row of lofty elms, from which the rooks were cawing lustily, as they tended their sable offspring, in the huge unsightly nests that swung on every bough.

The people were just returning from the hay-field to their dinner, and it seemed so natural to Dorothy to hear them calling to the horses, as the load of hay, fresh and fragrant, swept past on its way to the rick.

The farm-servant, who walked beside the load, with his fork over his shoulder, stared at her, and plucked the front lock of his hair, by way of salutation.

Dorothy went up to him, and asked, “if his old mistress was at home?”

“Ya’as. She be to whome, an’ young meastress too. A’ be seek wi sha’aking ague. I’m thinkin’ she’ll be right glad to see you, Dorothy Cha’ance.” And the team moved on, and poor Dolly, more ashamed of her errand than ever, went into the house.

She found that the younger Mrs. Barford was not in from the field, but an old crone, who was rocking the cradle, told her “to go straight up to the old woman’s chamber,” and Dorothy, glad to escape from the farmer and his men, went up accordingly.

She found the sick woman wrapped up in a warm dressing-gown, reclining languidly in a large easy chair. She was a fine looking woman of sixty, but the disagreeable disease under which she was labouring, rendered her sallow and hollow-eyed, and added a ghastly lengthiness to her straight features.

She received Dorothy with much kindness; bade her sit down and tell her the news; and how they all were at Heath Farm; and why she (Dorothy) had taken such a long walk in the heat of the day, and at such a busy time; adding, with great self-complacency, “that she supposed her old friend, Mary Rushmere, had heard she was ill, and had sent Dorothy to learn how she was.”

Dorothy was obliged to undeceive her on that point, though she expressed great concern to find her unable to leave her chamber, and, encouraged by the friendly countenance of the invalid, she explained the cause of her visit, and offered her services gratis, in return for the protection of a home.

Mrs. Barford, who knew the value of those services to her former employers, not only accepted them with great satisfaction, but promised to remunerate them as they deserved.

“Take off your things, Dorothy, and make yourself contented. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Letty has just had another baby, and her dairy-maid got married and left at this busy time, and I’m sick and good for naught. I look upon your coming as a special providence, for every body knows what a good industrious girl you be.”

“I will try my very best to serve you,” said Dorothy. “I am a good nurse, and it will give me much pleasure to wait upon you. I never had the ague, but I am sure it must be a weary thing.”

“The fit has just left me, Dorothy. I feel better now. You must tell me that story again. So Rushmere did not wish his son to marry you?”

“I don’t wonder at that,” said Dolly, sadly; “but dear mother wished it.”

“And well she might. A clever industrious woman, let her rank be what it may, is a treasure to a farmer. Gilbert showed his good sense in wishing to secure such a wife. Larry was always proud and uppish, and carried his head a foot higher than his neighbours. I was sorry when Mary Horton married him. He has made her a better husband than I thought he would. He need not blame Gilbert for marrying for love, it was the very thing he did himself. Mary had no fortune but her pretty face.”

“She is the best woman in the world,” said Dolly, energetically. “I feel as if I never could love her enough, or repay her for all she has done for me. Father was very good and kind, too, till Gilbert took this unfortunate fancy for me.”

“You have no fancy for him, then?” and the old lady pinched the velvet cheek of the earnest girl.

“Of course, I have,” answered Dorothy, with amusing simplicity. “If I did not care for him, I should have no cause to be here.”

Mrs. Barford laughed.

“Now tell me, child, what were Lawrence Rushmere’s principal objections to such a suitable match for his son?”

In spite of the character bestowed upon her by her old friend, Mrs. Barford dearly loved a bit of gossip. She had been confined to the house a month, and there had been, as a natural consequence, a great dearth of news.

“He wanted Gilly to marry Miss Watling. She has money and land. I have none.”

“Marry Nancy Watling!” cried the invalid, rubbing her hands together, in a sort of ecstacy. “Ugly, ill-tempered old Nance—well, that’s a capital joke. Lawrence must be in his dotage. Does he think that he can force a handsome jolly young bachelor, like his son Gilbert, to marry the like o’ her? Why the woman is old enough, Dolly, to be your mother—and what said Nance?”

“I think she wished it very much.”

“No doubt she did.”

“She offered her place to him to farm on shares, and said that she wanted a smart young man to take charge of her affairs. It was his refusal that made all the trouble.”

For a sick woman, to be sure, the ague fit had left its victim for that day, and she was feeling better. Mrs. Barford laughed very uproariously.

Just then, her son came in to hear how she was, and what he should send up for her dinner. His good-natured wide mouth expanded into a broad grin, as he stood with a clownish air at the door, staring at Dorothy, without advancing a step.

“Why, mother, you be in a mighty foony humour. I ‘spected to find ye’s croonin an groaning in fit this morning. What did lass say, to make ye’s laugh out so loud?”

“Shut the door, Joe, and come here,” said his mother, still laughing. “What do you think. Nance Watling has been turning everything upside down at the Heath Farm. She made proposals to Gilbert for a sleeping partner.”

“Oh, no, ma’am. Not quite so bad as that,” put in Dorothy, thinking that her new friend was not adhering strictly to the truth. “He was to go shares with her in the farm.”

“Pshaw! child. I can see through her tricks. It all comes to the same thing. Why she made an offer to Joe here before he married.”

“Yes, that a’ did,” simpered Joe, “I dare say she’d deny it now. She wanted to ha’ me, whether a’ wud or no. And what said old man?”

“He wanted Gilly to close with her offer.”

“O coorse—he thought o’ her big fortin. Old Larry is fond o’ the money.”

“Gilbert kicked up, it seems,” continued Mrs. Barford, “and would have none of the old maid. He wanted to take this lass. Lawrence flew into a rage, and turned the poor girl out of the house. The wife, who knows her value, sent her straight to me. She will be of rare service during these busy times to Letty and me.”

“That a’ wull,” responded Joe. “Coome along, Dolly, an’ speak to my missus. The dinner will be ‘a waiting, an’ times money here. Mother can’t ye’s drink a pint o’ yell an pick a bit o’ bacon?”

The sick woman shook her head, with an air of disgust.

“Dolly will bring me a glass of cowslip wine and a bit of dry toast. I don’t feel like eating yet.”

“Dang yer cowslip wine,” quoth Joe, “it’s poor trash, the yell would do a’ more good.”

“It’s bad for the bile, Joe. This ague makes a body very squeamish. But go to your dinner, children, and don’t keep the men waiting. Dorothy, you can attend to me by and by.”

Dorothy smoothed her black locks, which the wind and her quick walking had scattered over her face, and followed her jolly conductor down to the kitchen.

The homely but substantial dinner was smoking on the table, and Joe’s wife was already in her place at the head of the board.

A short stout matron of thirty, with yellow hair, blue eyes, and a very rosy face; her features were coarse, and their expression everything but pleasing; her whole appearance decidedly common and vulgar. Four young boys ranging from five to thirteen years of age, were seated on either side their mother, and formed very respectable olive branches; healthy merry looking fellows, with eyes brimful of fun and mischief. A wicker cradle, in which the youngest scion of the house was sleeping, stood beside Mrs. Barford, number two; so that if baby stirred during the repast his mother could keep him quiet, by moving the cradle with her foot, while attending to the wants of her household.

Joe fronted his better half at the foot of the table, in his shirt sleeves; tall, bony and hard featured, his honest jovial face tanned to a swarthy red; he presented a fair specimen of a common tiller of the soil; his three working hands, who sat near him, were far more civilized in their appearance than the master of the house.

As they came trooping in, and tumbled into their seats, Letty Barford called out, in a shrill voice.

“Don’t make such a clatter there, or yo’ll waken up the babby. Joe, I wonders at ye, keepen the dinner waiting so long. The old woman upstairs shu’d ha’ more sense. An’ who is this gall ye ha’ brought with you?” scowling at Dorothy. “I’m thinken I’ve seen her face afore.”

“It’s Miss Chance, from Heath Farm,” said Joe, in a very subdued voice, his large grey eye quailing beneath the fierce inquiring gaze of his wife.

“Miss.—We have no misses here,” she muttered, in an audible aside. “Sit down, Dorothy Chance, Ye’r welcome to what we ha’; not ‘specting company you’ll find no junkets at table.”

Dorothy, who neither liked the looks of the speaker, nor her harsh voice, mechanically obeyed; and the great business of dinner commenced.

Such a clatter of knives and forks, such an earnest addressing of each individual to the important task of satisfying his hunger, that few words were spoken during the meal.

Beans and bacon, cabbage and brown hard dumplings, formed the bill of fare, which the men washed down with plenty of table beer.

Dorothy had been used to such homely diet, and, in spite of her grief, ate a tolerably hearty meal, not having tasted food since she had dined on the previous day.

“That’s right, lass! doan’t fret aboot sweetheart, but get a good dinner. There’s plenty o’ men left in the country,” said the yeoman, drinking off his glass of foaming ale, and nodding to Dorothy. “There’s my Dick, an’ he wor only ten year older, I’d gi him to yer, wi a right good wull—that a’ wud.”

Dorothy blushed scarlet, the men burst into a loud haw, haw; and Master Dick, glancing at the strange girl, said, with a saucy air—

“When I wants a maid, I’ll please mysel,” a declaration which all present seemed to consider very witty.

The dinner was at last concluded, and men and boys went off to the hay-field, leaving Dorothy alone with Mrs. Joe and the baby.

With great reluctance she communicated to the coarse common-minded woman, the unfortunate circumstances that had brought her to the house, taking care to give the relation in the most matter-of-fact language.

Mrs. Joe listened to the tale with an air of stolid indifference, though secretly glad of the chance that had brought such an excellent work-woman into the house. She was a poor manager, and possessed no capacity for anything beyond keeping her husband and children remarkably clean. Her butter and cheese had no repute at market, and she generally had to dispose of these important articles of farm produce for an inferior price.

“Well,” she said, with a most provoking air of distrust, “yours do seem a strange story. I hope it may be all true. How’dsomever, that be no consarn o’ mine. I be right glad you be come. Maybe, you’ll teach me your method o’ makin’ cheese an’ butter. Yours wor allers the crack o’ the market. I ha’ had that ere butter o’ your’n thrown up in my face a hunder times.”

“I will take charge of the dairy, Mrs. Joseph, if you wish it?”

“Doan’t call me, Mrs. Joseph. I doan’t want any o’ those quality names here. I’m allers called Letty. If a’ wull take care o’ the cows, it will save me a world o’ trouble. The children are all lads, an it’s little help they gi’ a body, they keeps un allers washing an’ mending, an’ fretting un’s heart out about thar mischief. Then old uman’s so ugly about the rows they make, toombling over chairs an’ stools, an’ yapping when thar hurt, my heads a’most split wi’ noise. I did hope that young ‘un in cradle wu’d ha’ proved a lass, but ‘tis a man child, an’ a fine whopping boy too, amaist big enough, and strong enough, to go to plough.”

Here Letty drew the coverlet from the face of the sleeping babe, and displayed his chubby proportions with maternal pride.

“That’s some ‘at like a babby—he’s a credit to the farm.”

“What a lovely child,” cried Dorothy, as the sleepy little fellow, barely a month old, lazily opened his blue eyes, and stretched himself and yawned in the most healthy and approved fashion. “What have you called him?”

“Hain’t taken un to parson yet. A mean to call ‘un Thomas, arter my own feather. Mother do think that she ha’ a right to name all the bairns, but I mean to ha’ my own way for once.”

“Tommy and I are sure to be friends,” said Dorothy, lifting the child from the cradle. “I dearly love babies—it will be play nursing him.”

The mother laughed.

“Ye’r dearly welcome to sich play. If you bide here, ye’ll ha’ lots on’t. But what of the old missus upstairs.—What’ll she ha’ for dinner?”

Dorothy had forgotten all about the cowslip wine and the toast, and procuring these delicacies from Mrs. Joe, she hastened with them back to the sick chamber.

“Out o’ sight out o’ mind,” said the invalid, good-naturedly. “I thought, Dolly, you never meant to come. What has kept you since dinner?”

“I had to tell Mrs. Letty the reason why I left the farm.”

“An’ what did she say?” asked her companion, with an eager look.

“I think she scarcely believed me,” returned Dorothy. “She almost said as much.”

“Oh, you must not mind her. She is a rude envious creature, an’ as jealous o’ her husband as she can be. You must mind how you speak to him, or you’ll get scissors. I have to keep Mistress Letty in her place, the vulgar low thing that she is, or I should have a poor time of it, if I let her have her own way. She is actually jealous of the natural affection Joe has for me, an’ he’s the best tempered fellow in the world to put up with her nonsense. But I’m mistress here, an’ she’s obliged to draw in her horns. You’ll get on very well with her, if you only show her a bold front; for, after all, she’s a big coward, her bark is worse than her bite.”

While drawing this unprepossessing but true character of her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Barford went on leisurely sipping her cowslip wine.

“I hope we shall be friends,” said Dorothy, “we all have our faults, and so many young children are a great trial of temper; I shall be able to relieve Mrs. Letty of the trouble of the baby, and do most of the indoor work. It will be better than my going out into the fields with her husband and the men.”

“You are just right. Now run down and clear away the dishes. I feel quite comfortable. Reach a pillow from the bed, Dolly. Just put it here, to the right side of the chair. Now the house is quiet, I shall get a nice nap.”

Here Master Tommy thought fit to try the strength of his lungs, and began squalling lustily.

“Drat the child!” cried Mrs. Barford, using her son Joe’s favourite expletive, “he allers chooses to be wide awake when I want to go to sleep. Do try, Dolly, and keep him still. You will find plenty to do down stairs between this and supper time.” Coiling herself round in the comfortable chair, the old lady settled herself for a nap, and Dorothy ran down to clear away the dishes and relieve Letty from the care of the babe.

A week passed away, Dorothy thought it as long as a month. There came no word from the farm, and she concluded that Gilbert had returned to his accustomed duties; and that even Mrs. Rushmere had become reconciled to her absence.

Another week, and still no news of Gilbert.

Dorothy, by this time, was thoroughly acquainted with her new place; had got used to the people and the cattle; and was a great favourite in the family, from Master Dick down to little Sammy, who sat upon her lap of an evening to hear her tell him a story before he went to bed, Mrs. Letty forming the only exception. She could not bear to hear her mother-in-law praise Dorothy, but she found her too useful to quarrel with lightly, and confined her dislike to a watchful scrutiny of her words and actions, and a curt rude manner in giving her orders.

Dorothy would have felt this want of common courtesy very keenly, had not her mind been occupied with a deeper cause of anxiety, and she neither resented nor took the least notice of Mrs. Joe’s ill manners, beyond setting her down in her own mind as a selfish unfeeling woman, with whom she could never be on friendly terms, and whose company was very disagreeable.

One day she was passing through a passage that led from the kitchen to the dairy. Joe and his wife were in earnest conversation in the kitchen; the door was open, they did not see Dorothy, and she could not help overhearing what they were talking about.

“Doa’nt b’lieve a word on’t. The girl’s a good modest girl. She never do trouble herself aboot men folk.”

“Phew!” hissed forth the little wife.

“People are mighty good till they be found out. She’s a sly one—she be. I doa’nt swallow that story o’ her’n. Depend upon it, man, it be a big lie fro’ beginning to end. She doa’nt fool me wi’ the like o’ that. Farmer Rushmere wu’d not turn her out for naught.”

“Dang it! Letty, I know summut o’ women folk. I’d as soon suspect mother o’ the like as Dorothy Chance. A nicer, quieter girl never comed into a house.”

“O coorse, Joe, she be all perfection in yar eyes,” and Mrs. Joe began to whimper. “These still ‘uns be allers the worst. Wait awhile an’ you’ll find out who’s right. I hate the wench, wi’ her cunning black eyes lookin a body through. She be a deep un—she be.”

Here the matrimonial colloquy ended, and Dorothy hurried on to the dairy. She put down her pails, shut the door, and began to ponder over what she had heard.

What could Mrs. Joe mean? What had she done? Of what did she accuse her? She felt inclined to go back and demand an explanation. Then, the old adage rushed into her mind. “Listeners seldom hear any good of themselves,” and she was no match in a battle of words with such a woman as Mrs. Joe; so she determined to take no notice of what she had heard, but to seek another situation as soon as she could.

Dorothy felt very wretched, and set about churning that evening with a heavy heart. Her faith in the goodness of human nature was very much shaken; she had conscientiously done her duty to her employers, and this was her reward.

Saturday was the market-day at Hadstone. Dorothy dressed the butter—it was a prime article—and packed a panier of fresh eggs, before she went to bed that night, thinking that her services would be required to sell them in the morning. She wanted much to go to town, in the hope of hearing some news about the Rushmeres, and to obtain, if possible, another service, for she felt it was impossible to remain much longer where she was.

Unfortunately for her, this was Letty’s holiday. The only day in the week, except Sunday, that she could learn the news of the parish. Dorothy felt cruelly disappointed, but she said nothing, and helped Letty, as carefully as usual, to pack the baskets into the light cart.

In her best bonnet and black silk spencer, (they wore spencers in those days instead of jackets) her light flaxen hair disposed in round curls, her gay chintz gown spotlessly clean; the younger Mrs. Barford looked a comely country wife. Dorothy gave her the whip, and ran ahead to open the gate that led into the road.

“Mrs. Barford,” she said, in a hesitating voice, “do not forget to make inquiries about the old folks at the farm, and whether Gilbert has returned. I do so wish to know. I should feel more happy and settled like.”

“Never fear lass. I’m dying wi’ curiosity to larn all I can aboot them.” She smiled significantly and glanced furtively at Dorothy.

“Old Mrs. Larks wull tell me every thing. She allers picks up all the news. Mayhap, you may hear more than wull please you.”

Dorothy felt mad with herself for asking her to inquire about her old friends, and Mrs. Letty commenced giving her instructions about the household during her absence.

“Now mind, Dolly, an’ take care o’ the babe, an’ put no sugar in a’s milk. An’ see that the men ha’ their dinner in right time; an’ doant put tew many plooms inter thar doomplins, for ‘tis carting day, ‘an they ‘spect plooms. An’ keep the old woman from scolding the lads. She’ll be sure to be peeking an’ perking inter every thing the moment my back’s turned. I shan’t be whome afore ‘tis time to milk cows. An’ mind an’ be here to open the gate when I coomes back.”

Crack went the whip and away floundered the old horse through the gate. Dolly, after watching his progress for a few minutes down the hill, with a heavy sigh and a boding anticipation of evil tidings, returned slowly to the house.

CHAPTER VI.

NEWS OF GILBERT.

The elder Mrs. Barford, the real mistress of the house, for the farm belonged to her, and she shared the profits with her son; had quite recovered from the ague, which she attributed to the good nursing and care of Dorothy. She and her son’s wife were not on very good terms.

Mrs. Barford, as a country heiress, had received a boarding-school education, and was very superior to Letty in every respect. Her mother died when she was very young. After her father’s death, which happened before she was out of her teens, she had married the bailiff, who farmed the estate for her benefit. A good looking, but totally uneducated man.

He despised what he called book-larning, and suffered his only son to grow up as ignorant and clownish as himself. This had been a deep mortification to Mrs. Barford, but as it had originated in her own imprudence, and she had no one to blame but herself, she wisely held her tongue about it. It was not until after Joe brought home his vulgar wife, that she was practically taught to feel the degradation that her mésalliance had brought upon her once respectable family.

While Dorothy was alone with her that morning, she informed Mrs. Barford of the conversation she had overheard between her son and his wife, and asked her if she knew what it meant?

The old lady was as ignorant of the matter as herself. She was very fond of Dorothy, who, she said, was the only person in the house she could talk to, and was very angry with Letty for having indulged in such base suspicions.

“It is just like her,” she said. “Nobody knows the trial I have had with her, since Joe brought her here to be the plague of my life. Don’t heed her, Dorothy. She is a cantankerous creature, who never has a good word to say about any one. I am mistress here, and you shall stay as long as I please, without asking her leave. She did not bear the best of characters when my poor boy was fool enough to marry her. Dick was born five months after, which brought a scandal upon the house; and it is allers those sort o’ folks that are the first to find fault with others who are better and prettier than themselves. She is a poor shiftless thing, and indifferent to every thing but her own comfort.”

Much as Dorothy disliked Letty, she thought that little comfort could be extracted from continuous hard work, and the care of five children, the youngest a baby; her very want of method made her labours less effective and more fatiguing.

Without, perhaps, being aware of it, the elder Mrs. Barford was very selfish and exacting; she added a good deal to Letty’s domestic drudgery, and never did the least thing herself, beyond continual fault-finding and scolding the children.

Dorothy had tried her best to relieve Letty of half her burthen, and in return had been made a bone of contention between them. Mrs. Barford wanted her to wait entirely upon herself, and was jealous of her doing so much for Letty; and Joe, who endorsed all that his mother did and said, had widened the breach, by admiring Dolly’s pretty face, and extolling her superior management.

It was hard to keep the peace between them all.

Dorothy had been so much engrossed by her own troubles, that she had taken little notice of their occasional bickerings; it was only since yesterday that she had imagined that she was in any way the cause of their quarrels,—hitherto she had gone about her work little heeding them. This day in particular, the old lady was cross and hard to please. The baby cried, wanting its mother, and refused to be fed. The younger boys were troublesome, and the day oppressively hot. Dolly was sadly put about, to attend to them all and cook the dinner. It was a relief when Joe and the men came in from work.

“The beef an’ cabbage,” Joe said, “wor cooked prime.” He wished “the missus wud go out every day, an’ leave lass to cook the dinner.” The ploom dumplings, however, were not so much to his taste.

“Doll,” he said, “do you call e’es suetty things ploom dumplins? I see no plooms in ‘em. It dew put me in mind o’ a story feather used to tell, o’ a stingy missus, who made a pudden for the men in harvest, an’ put one ploom in ter middle on’t; an’ while men wor quareling aboot who shu’d ha’ the ploom, a wasp flew away wi’ it.”

A chorus of haw haws, showed how delighted his fellow-clowns were with farmer Joe’s story.

Dorothy felt annoyed, though she laughed with the rest.

“I should have made the dumplings with more fruit in them, master, only Letty cautioned me not to be extravagant with the plums.”

“I thought as much,” returned Mrs. Barford, rather spitefully. “Letty is fond of saving in a small way. Stopping the cask at the spigot, and letting out at the bunghole, as my father used to say. Take it as a general rule, Dorothy, when men work hard to feed them well.”

“The old missus for ever,” shouted Nat Green, one of the farm servants. “She wor a prime hand at a pudden anyhow.”

“Ah, ha,” said Joe, who happened to be in a very jocular mood, “that reminds me o’ a terrible thrashing I once got from mother. I was a youngster about the size of Jack there; we wor in the thick o’ the harvest, it wor carting day, an’ all hands on the farm mortal busy, mother wanted plooms for the pudden an’ ther wor none to send to shop but I, so she calls me to her, an’ gees me a shilling.

“‘Joe,’ she says, ‘run down to the village and buy two pund o’ plooms o’ Mr. Carter; be quick, for I be in a mighty hurry, and I’ll gi’ you a ha’penny when you come back.’ I wor right glad o’ the chance. ‘Twor aboot a mile, an’ I run’d the whole way, an’ bought the plooms.

“Says Mr. Carter, says he, ‘doan’t eat them by the way.’

“I shu’d never have thought o’ that, foreby he had held his tongue. As I coomed whome a hole broke in the paper, an’ plooms coomed tomblin out, one arter another; an’ I kept yeating an’ yeating till thar wor half gone. Dang it, I wor sceared. What shu’d a’ do? Mother wor awful in them days aboot stealing, so I sat doon on bank by road side, an’ thought it well over, an’ by gosh, I hit on a plan I thought wud get me oot o’ scrape.”

“Well, feather,” called out Master Dick, opening wide his round blue eyes, “what did a’ do? Did granny find it oot?”

“That she did, boy. I opened the parcel, an’ bit ev’ry ploom in two.”

“You were about as wise then, Joe, as you be now,” suggested Mrs. Barford, who, like the children and Dolly, was listening intensely to the story.

“But what did granny say?” again demanded the boy.

“She asked how they coomed in that state? I pretended I did not know. That was just the way I got e’m from Mr. Carter.

“‘You lie,’ quoth she, ‘an’ are a big fule into the bargain. Come here an’ I wull teach you how to tell the truth.’

“An’ she took an ashen stick, an’ she loomped I, an’ thrashed I, till a’ went off limping to bed.

“‘Lie thar, Joe, till the morn,’ says she, ‘an’ take your time to find out how many two halves make put together.’

“Lauck, a lauck, how my bones ached! It wor all right, howsomever; I never put my haund to stealing again.”

The boys regarded their grandmother with a look of awe. The men returned to the field, and Dorothy busied herself with household matters till the sun went down. She was in a fever of impatience for Letty’s return from the town, and worked as hard as she could to keep down her heart and drown thought.

“What keeps Letty,” said Mrs. Barford, putting aside her knitting, and going to the door, “she is later than usual. Now she has some one to do her work she will stay gossiping about the town till dark night. When you have milked, Dolly, run to the avenue gate, and see if she be coming.”

The round red moon was slowly rising behind the trees, and Joe and his men had finished their supper, and brought the last load of hay into the yard, before Dolly had cleared away and finished milking.

Without staying to take a cup of tea with Mrs. Barford, she tied on her bonnet and ran down to the avenue gate, just as old Captain came lumbering up to it.

“Dolly,” cried his mistress, “be that you?”

Dorothy threw open the gate.

“I ‘spose you all thought I wor lost. I ha’ strange news for you, Dorothy.”

“Bad or good?” asked Dolly, in a voice scarcely above her breath.

“Bad enough. This be what I heard in the market. That you, Dorothy Chance, had played the fule wi’ Gilbert Rushmere. That the old folk turned you off for your bad conduct. That Gilly run’d away, to get rid on ye, an’ went an’ listed for a soger, an’ be gone to forin parts. An’ the old woman be quite crazed, an’ well nigh dead wi’ grief, an’ has not been out o’ bed for a fortnite. That Rushmere goes cursing and swearing about the house, an’ wishing you in the bad place, an’ that he had never seen your black face. That’s the news I heard, and for sartin it be bad enough an’ no mistake.”

Dorothy’s colour went and came as she clung to the gate for support. “You cannot believe that of me, Mrs. Letty. You cannot have the heart to believe it,” she gasped out, in a tone of entreaty, appealing to the heart and conscience of her accuser. “It is false! cruelly false! I never did aught amiss with Gilbert in my life.”

“Folks say it’s true, at any rate,” retorted the little souled creature, with a malignant glance of triumph at her pale trembling victim. “I tould you I never did ‘blieve that cock an’ bull story wi’ which you gulled mother an’ Joe. It didn’t sound probable like—it didn’t.”

Joe’s wife rode slowly up the avenue, to communicate what she had heard to the assembled household, leaving Dorothy at the gate crying as if her heart would burst.

The cruel and unjustifiable conduct of her lover, the distress of his parents, and her own desolation, was almost more than she could bear; and when to all this suffering was added the abominable slander just uttered by her unfeeling mistress, the weight of undeserved injury that pressed upon her brain was maddening. It changed all the benevolence of her nature into wrathful bitterness and unmitigated contempt.

A word had never before been breathed against her character. She had always been spoken of as a modest good girl, and pointed out as a model for imitation to all the young women in the parish,—and the base calumny just spoken by Letty Barford, and her evident satisfaction in repeating it, filled her with more grief, than even the sad news of Gilbert’s enlistment.

“What shall I do!” she cried. “I cannot stay here. I cannot hold up my head among these people with all this shame cast upon me.”

In a few minutes her resolution was taken. “I will go home,” she sobbed, “and hear the truth from their own lips,—they must need help in their present distress. Who can feel for them like me, whose heart is bleeding from the same wound. Mother knows my innocence—she will pay no heed to these wicked stories. Yes, I will return to her this very night.”

She drew herself up proudly, wiped away her tears, and walked with a firm step back to the house, tied up her few things in the bundle, and entered the kitchen with the courage that conscious integrity can alone give.

Men, women, and children, were gathered together in the middle of the room, all talking at once.

“Hush!” said Letty, glancing towards the door, as Dorothy came in. “Here’s my lady herself.”

“Dolly,” cried the yeoman, “Dolly, lass, I do’ant ‘blieve one word o’nt. It’s all a malicious invention of Nance Watling’s. Face it out, Dolly. I’ll stand by you at ony rate.”

“I want no one to take my part, Mr. Barford,” returned Dorothy, her spirit rising as she spoke. “I don’t care who invented or who believes such a vile story. It is false. I can live it down.”

“That’s right, my girl, take it with a high hand,” retorted Letty, who concluded that Dorothy’s speech was levelled at her. “It makes a body laugh, when a beggar’s brat gi’es hersel’ sich airs.”

“For shame, Letty,” said the old lady, whose faith in Dorothy’s goodness had been a little upset by her daughter-in-law’s relation, but who still regarded her with affection. “What harm has poor Dolly ever done to you? Those who have glass windows of their own,” she added, in an aside, “should be the last to throw stones.”

“To show you all that I am innocent,” continued Dorothy, taking no notice of Letty’s insulting speech, which she considered infinitely beneath answering, or Mrs. Barford’s doubtful sympathy, “that I am not afraid of meeting my dear foster parents, I shall go home this very night.” Her black eyes flashed, the colour deepened in her cheeks, and the hitherto quiet girl looked sublime in the intensity of her disdain.

“I think you are right, Dorothy,” said Mrs. Barford, who foresaw that there would be no peace with Letty if she remained. “If the old people will receive you again, home is the best place for you. I would not stay here to be insulted by Mrs. Letty, let the story be true or false.”

“Who wants her?” shrieked Mrs. Joe. “The sooner she goes the better.”

“She be’ant a’ going alone ow’r that lonesome heath,” said the compassionate Joe, who could not bear to see a pretty girl in distress, and who could not look in Dorothy’s indignant face and believe her guilty, “if I drive her whome mysel.”

“You’ll do no sich thing, Mr. Joe Barford,” cried Letty, putting her arms akimbo, and stepping between her husband and Dorothy. “I ‘spose you want to run off wi’ the brazen-faced minx?”

“Thank you, Mr. Barford,” said Dorothy sternly. “I am able to take care of myself. There is nothing to fear.”

“Nothing to fear,” repeated Joe, lifting his hand with a gesture of astonishment. “Why, lass, the place is haunted. Did’st never hear that?”

“Yes, wi’ her precious mother’s ghost,” sneered Letty. “Like mother, like child.”

Dorothy started. She cast upon the speaker a look of ineffable contempt, and left the house without a word of parting to its inhabitants, never stopping for a moment till she gained the high road. “Good heavens!” she cried, when once more alone, and beneath the wide canopy of the night, “are these people fiends, that they rejoice in the supposition of my guilt, and condemn me on mere hearsay, without the least proof that I have committed this great sin?

“Is this human nature, of the wickedness of which I have heard so much, and which I found so hard to believe. I will never trust to kind looks and flattering words again. I tried to serve these people to the best of my ability; they all seemed pleased with me and spoke me fair, yet the first breath of evil that assails my character has turned them into bitter enemies. If this be life, how much better to—!” The rest of the unspoken sentence her better reason silenced.

This was only one of the many hard lessons people learn in the world. Dorothy was as yet a novice to the world and its crooked paths, and she felt indignant at the sorry treatment she had received from it during the past few weeks.

CHAPTER VII.

MIDNIGHT ON THE HEATH.

Dorothy walked on at a rapid pace for upwards of an hour: the night had now fairly closed in upon her; the moon shone bright, and the air was warm and balmy, but the road was long and lonely; not one solitary cottage was to be found beside her path, after she turned into the upland road that led across the heath.

People of limited education, born and brought up in out of the way country places, are apt to be superstitious. Dorothy was not above the common weakness of her class. Ghost stories, dreams and presentiments, not to say anything of bewitchments and distempers, caused by the withering glance of the evil eye, were subjects that generally formed the topic of conversation round the winter hearth, and were devoutly believed as truths, by the simple narrators, who derived from them an inexhaustible fund of amusement.

This fear of the invisible world, so inherent in simple natures, has been implanted for a wise purpose. It keeps alive a consciousness of the immortality of the soul, which otherwise might be disregarded by those who are separated by poverty and distance from coming to the knowledge of revealed truth.

As Dorothy hastened on, some of the wild legends she had heard from childhood glanced through her mind. The tide of angry feeling that had raised her above fear, was fast subsiding, and a thousand weird fancies flitted through her brain. She began bitterly to repent having refused the honest yeoman’s blunt offer, to see her safe over the long lonely upland waste, stretching out into the far distance, which lay so still under the moonshine before her.

It was too late to go back. She could not think of that now—but she could not help owning to herself that she was horribly afraid, and she ran along the steep rugged path as fast as if she had been pursued by a host of evil spirits.

Something sprang up against her. She gave a loud scream.

It was Pincher, who had missed her from the kitchen, and had followed upon her track.

Dorothy kissed the dear old dog in her excess of gratitude—his presence gave her courage. Who has not felt the comfort and companionship of a faithful dog at night, and on a lonely road. Dorothy felt that she was safe now, she had a trusty friend to protect her, who, if need be, would lay down his life to defend her.

The girl and her four-footed companion walked on lovingly together beneath the broad light of the moon, conversing to each other in their own peculiar way.

They had now mounted the steep ridge of the heath that commanded a fine view of the ocean, which lay heaving and gleaming like molten silver against the horizon, sending up a deep, mysterious voice through the stillness of the night.

How grand it would have appeared to Dorothy at any other time, for her soul, simple and innocent as that of a little child, was steeped in the poetry of nature, which the Divine Mother alone whispers to the good and pure of heart. Now, the mournful music made by those coming and retreating waves, breaking the death-like silence which reigned around, filled her mind with a chilling dread.

She was fast approaching the deep hollow where her mother died, and the terrible words that had dropped from Joe Barford, that it was haunted by her ghost, rushed into her mind, filling it with an ungovernable fear.

“What if she should see her apparition?” She stopped—irresolute what to do. Her own shadow in the moonlight made her start and scream. She tried to run past the spot, which lay in deep shadow to the right, but her feet seemed chained to the earth, and her eyes, as if under a terrible fascination, were fixed upon the clump of furze that crowned the little ridge above, that looked so black and shadowy when all around was bright as day.

While she stood, pale with horror, her eyes wide open, her quivering lips apart, the white teeth chattering together, and her limbs relaxed and trembling, a low wailing sound crept through the purple heath, the furze bushes shivered as if instinct with life, and the dog crawled to her feet moaning piteously.

Dorothy tried to rouse herself, to break, by speaking to the dog, the horrible spell in which her senses were bound up, but not a sound could she utter. In desperation she turned her head from the haunted spot.

She saw, what to her frenzied eye appeared a slight figure, shrouded in mist, through which the moon-beams flickered and played slowly, flitting along her path.

Again that wild unearthly sound rustled among the bushes, and the dog broke out into a long dismal howl. A cry, which heard, even at noon day, seldom fails to blanch the manliest cheek. Dorothy heard it not—with a sobbing moan she sank to the ground insensible to fear, or aught else beneath the wide canopy of heaven.

Pincher nestled close to his fainting mistress, hiding his shaggy head upon her breast.

Whatever the dog suffered through the lonely watches of the night, Dorothy was happily unconscious of his terrors and her own.

She was so near to her old home, that had her senses been roused from that death-like stupor, she might have heard the clock in the great hall strike twelve. At that beautiful season of the year, day brightens in the east before three o’clock, and the rosy tints in the west seldom leave the horizon.

The sun had just risen over the sea, when Lawrence Rushmere went to water his horses at the brook in the sandy lane that ran in front of the house, sheltered beneath the steep ascent of the heath. At the gate which led from the court-yard, he encountered Pincher, whom he had not seen since Dorothy left.

“What, the old doorg,” he cried, patting him with infinite satisfaction. “The old doorg come home. I wonder what kept thee away so long. How is it with the poor wench?”

After the first salutation was over between master and dog, Pincher tried, in his dog fashion, to make him understand, by a thousand odd movements, that he wanted his special attention. He ran from the gate up the steep path leading to the heath, barking furiously, then returned to the farmer, and pulled him by the coat, as if he wished him to follow, and went through the same pantomime again and again.

“What can the doorg want wi’ me,” said Rushmere, at last struck by his odd behaviour, “I never saw him act in that fashion afore. Some of the cattle must have strayed upon the heath, and, mayhap, have fallen into a hole. Pincher was allers as wise as a Christian. I’ll follow un, an’ see what has happened.”

He fastened his horses to the gate, and took the path that led to the heath. Pincher ran barking on before, evidently delighted with his success, and led his master to the spot where Dorothy lay, pale and drenched with the night-dews, upon the ground.

The sight of the poor girl, so thin and altered since he last saw her in the glow of life and health, brought vividly to his recollection the dead mother, and filled his mind with shame and remorse, for the manner in which she had been driven from her home.

His large frame trembled, and tears sprang into his eyes.

“She is not dead but sleeping,” he said, as he remarked, with no small satisfaction, the regular heaving of her breast. “But what a place to choose for a bed, so near the spot where her mother died. Dorothy!” he cried, in a loud voice, “awake. It is I, the father who calls thee.”

The girl unclosed her eyes, sat up, and gazed upon him with a vague unmeaning stare.

“Dorothy, lass, don’t you know the father?”

He sat down beside her, and took her cold little hand in his. “What brought you here, child? Thou hast lost thy senses sure, to be sleeping upon the cold damp ground. It is enough to kill thee.”

The well-known voice, still more the kind words, recalled Dorothy to consciousness, and banished from her mind the horrors of the night.

“Father, dear father!” she whispered in a voice scarcely audible, as she nestled her head upon his broad shoulder, “how kind of you to come to find me.”

“Nay, it was not I but the doorg you have to thank, Dolly, it was he that brought me here, or you might have lain on the wet heath till the day of judgment. But why did you not come to the house—were you afraid that I should turn you away from my door?”

“I was on my way home, father, but something dreadful happened to me last night. Oh, so dreadful, that only to think of it makes my flesh creep.” She clung to the old man, and shivered in every limb.

“Speak out, lass. What was it? What ails thee? Did any one insult thee?”

“No, no, it was not flesh and blood.” Lowering her voice, and casting a timid glance around, she whispered in his ear, as if afraid of speaking it out. “I saw last night the ghost of my mother.”

“Lord a mercy!” cried the farmer, springing to his feet, with the elasticity of a young man, and gazing upon Dorothy with a wild horror gleaming in his eyes. “Were you in your right mind. What did a’ look like?”

“A shadow—a thin vapoury form, through which I saw the moon shining.”

“But how didst thou know the mother? Did it speak?”

Dolly shook her head.

“A low wailing, sobbing cry passed along the ground, and shook the bushes It was like nothing human—so sad and wild. Pincher crept to my feet and howled back an answer.”

“Aye, doorgs be wise—they see what we can’t see—and what then, lass?”

“A mortal fear came over me. I tried to run but fell. I remember nothing after that, until you woke me up just now.”

“It wor strange,” mused the old man. “I never did wholly believe in ghosts, but you are not the girl to tell a lie. You might have been mistaken—but I would bet ten to one on the doorg. And how do you feel, Dolly, arter lying so long in the dews?”

“Stiff and cold,” said Dorothy, her teeth chattering in her head, and a deeper pallor settling on her face. “I shall soon get over that, when I am once more at home.”

“And what brought thee out so late last night, child. Worn’t thee afeard of passing over the lonesome heath?”

“Father, I had been told a sad story—had been vexed by a cruel and false accusation against my character; and I could not remain where I was, and put up with their insults, or rest until I heard the truth of what they told me from your own lips.” She stopped for a minute to gather courage to ask the dreadful question. “Has Gilbert enlisted for a soldier and gone to the wars?”

The old man burst into tears, and sobbed like a child.

Dorothy needed no stronger confirmation of her fears. She saw that the report was only too true, and her heart bled for the poor old man. “Father,” she cried, affectionately pressing his hand between her own, “is it too late to buy him off?”

“It’s na’ use thinking o’ that, Dorothy, we did not get his letter until the ship had sailed, that took him away ow’r seas wi’ the rest. He’s in Spain long afore this.”

“Then he did write.”

“Yea, a short bit o’ a letter.”

“Did he give any excuse for going?”

“Aye, the same old tale over agen. He had given up the girl he loved to please me, and he had listed for a soger to please himsel’, and I alone wor to blame. The king wanted men, and he would go and fight for him and his country; his life were no better worth than another’s, and he could not forget Dorothy while he remained at home.”

Rushmere began to sob afresh. Dorothy’s eager eyes were fixed imploringly on his face. She did not like to ask “Is that all? Is there no message, no word of comfort for me?” The longing desire to hear the whole of the letter, might be read in every feature of her expressive face.

“Ah, Dolly,” cried the old man, wringing his hands as he spoke, “had I been kinder to thee, lass, I should not have lost my son—my only son—the last man who bears my name on the earth, for aught I know to the contrary. It was only just of the Almighty to punish me for my pride. But ‘tis almost more than I have strength to bear.”

“All we can do now, father, is to bear the burthen with patience, and hope in God’s mercy for the future. It is of no use turning despondingly to the past.”

“Aye, girl, but conscience will turn our looks backward, whether we like it or no, an’ will tell us of acts an’ cruel words we would fain forget, an’ that ow’r an’ ow’r agen.”

“Did Gilbert send any word or message for me, father?” said Dorothy, growing desperate with excitement.

“Did a’,” returned Rushmere, looking blankly in Dorothy’s agitated face, as if his own thoughts were far away beyond the sea, with his absent son.

“Yes, a’ did. He bade us, if we loved him—how could he doubt it—take care of Dorothy, an’ cherish her as our own flesh and blood, as she wor the only child left to us now, an’ not to punish the poor girl for his fault.”

“God bless him!” said Dorothy, sadly, her heart not quite satisfied, and the tears coming fast into her eyes. “He sent no love, no kind remembrance to his old playmate?”

“That was all, Dolly, except his duty to us.”

Dorothy sighed, and for some minutes both were silent, at length the old man said,

“Dorothy, do you heed what Gilly said. Will you come back to us, an’ be our daughter once more—the comfort of our old age. We ha’ naught else to cling to now?”

Dorothy met the request, so humbly made, with heartfelt expressions of gratitude. She could not help thinking that Gilbert had acted selfishly, in deserting his parents; that it was a poor way of proving his love to her, by showing such a want of affection for them; but she crushed the ungracious thought, and inquired how Mrs. Rushmere had borne this heavy blow—ashamed of not having asked for her before.

“Alack, child, when she read the letter, she swoon’d dead away, an’ when the neighbours brought her round, she grew stark staring mad, raving and crying, ‘Gilly, Gilly, come back to your poor mother. Oh, my heart, my heart, it will break a’ wanting my son.’ It was awful to hear the like, an’ she allers such a quiet creature. It was many days afore she grew calm. She went one morn, an’ she fetched the big Bible, and went down upon her knees in the corner of the room, an’ she cried an’ crooned ow’r it for hours, an’ would na’ take a morsel o’ any thing to eat or to drink. At last she gets up, and she clasps her hands thus—together—an’ she looks at me wi’ her old pleasant kind face,

“‘Lawrence,’ she says, ‘God has comforted my poor sore heart, and given me his blessed peace. This trial is o’ him. Let us kneel down together, an’ pray that He may bless it to our souls.’

“An’ I did pray, Dolly, as I never did before in my life, an’ we found the word mighty to overcome grief.

“Then wife says, ‘Larry,’ she says to me, ‘you must go an’ bring our Dolly back. God gave her to us, an’ you ha’ clean forgotten the trust.’

“‘It’s never too late to repent,’ says I. ‘I will go for the little maid to-morrow evening, when I come from work.’ What moved your heart, Dorothy, to come alone?”

Dorothy did not like to mention the scandal which had roused her indignation, lest it should increase the farmer’s self-reproaches, which were heavy enough. She merely said, and it was the truth,

“That she was suddenly told of Gilbert’s enlistment, and she could not believe it until further confirmation from them. That it was late when she left Barford’s, but the night was so clear that she never apprehended any cause for alarm, that it must have been midnight when she fancied she saw the apparition on the heath, but since the sun had shone into her eyes she began to doubt the reality of the vision.

“She had been hard at work all day, and was greatly troubled in her mind when she started on her lonely walk. She might have sat down to rest and fallen asleep, and dreamt it, she no longer seemed to recall the circumstances very distinctly. The horrible phantasy had faded from her mind with the morning light, and she would try and think of it as a mental delusion.

“But then, what made Pincher howl in that fearful manner?”

Dolly shuddered. “It must be true, the dog could not have been deceived, though I might.”

A severe attack of fever and ague was the result of Dorothy passing the night upon the heath. For many weeks she was unable to leave her bed, and for some time small hopes were entertained for her life. Mrs. Rushmere received the poor wanderer with open arms, and thought little of the additional trouble. She had suffered too much to murmur about trifles. During the delirium of the fever, Dorothy raved continually about her mother, and dared not be left a moment alone in the dark.

It was firmly believed in the house, and through the neighbourhood, that she had seen her mother’s ghost, who had threatened the Rushmeres with unheard of calamities for turning her daughter out of doors. The wildest reports were in circulation; and the wonderful tale was repeated with a thousand exaggerations at church and at market.

The story reached Hadstone. The Barfords shook their heads. “It was Dorothy’s misdoings,” they kindly suggested, “that had disturbed her mother in her grave.”

Miss Watling, whose malicious tongue had first given rise to the scandal about Dorothy Gilbert, considered “that it was a judgment upon that vile creature, and that Gilbert had acted like a wise man, in going away to be rid of her. Time,” she added, emphatically, “would prove, that all that had been said about her was true.” She went farther, and hinted that her present illness had a very suspicious look.

Dorothy was annoyed that Mr. Rushmere had given publicity to her midnight adventure on the heath, but the temptation of repeating a veritable ghost story, in which he firmly believed, was too great for the old man to resist. As to the other tales, they did not all come to her ears; and such as did, she treated with a proud disdain. “God knew her innocence,” she said, “and in His own good time would disprove them all.”

The harvest was over before she was able to resume her household duties. As her former health and strength returned, her fears gradually diminished, and she could converse with calmness to Mrs. Rushmere of the terrible vision, which she now attributed to an over-excited state of mind combined with great bodily fatigue. About Gilbert and his future prospects, she had learned to speak without betraying the real state of her feelings; and had inspired the old people with the hope that he would one day return from the wars an officer at least.

Things began to wear a brighter aspect, and the labours of the farm went on peacefully and prosperously. The Rushmeres if not contented were resigned, and both united in treating Dorothy with kindness and consideration. The old family bible was in more constant use, and each day was commenced and ended with prayer.

Time passed on. The winds of autumn had laid the heart of the forest bare; short and gloomy days, and frequent storms of rain and hail, told that the winter was at hand.

CHAPTER VIII.

A STRANGE VISITOR.

It was the latter part of November. The day had been intensely cold, with a biting north-east wind and black frost. Towards evening the snow began to fall, at first in thin scattered flakes, but as the night closed in, thick and heavily.

Dorothy listened uneasily to the howling winds, as they swept in loud gusts along the heath, and often went to the door to watch for the return of Mr. Rushmere from Hadstone market. He had ridden over to the town early in the day, to receive a large payment for wheat, which he had sold the week before to a corn merchant there.

“Father is late,” she remarked to Mrs. Rushmere, who was knitting quietly by fire light, on one of the settles beside the hearth and who apprehended no danger, being blessed with a less anxious temperament than her adopted daughter. A cheerful fire was roaring up the great chimney, and she was literally basking in the warmth the ruddy blaze diffused around.

“I wish he was home,” continued Dorothy, who felt almost angry with her mother for looking so comfortable. “It is a wild night, and the snow is drifting terribly on the heath, he will hardly find his way across it in the storm. Why, mother, it is growing very dark—it is sometime since the clock struck six.”

The old lady glanced up from her work; her placid face wore a look of unusual serenity.

“Don’t be so unrestful, Dolly. I feel in my heart that he be close at hand. Lawrence Rushmere is not the man to be afeard of a few snow-flakes. Spread the table, and get every thing in readiness for his supper, when he does come. I can’t feel uneasy, for I am certain he will bring us news of Gilly. I was dreaming of him last night. I have borne him on my mind all day. I do feel so happy and lightsome, that it would be a sin to fret about troubles which may never come to our door.”

“I hope you may be right, mother. I cannot think of father being out at night, and on such a night as this, on that lonely heath, without a shudder. If thinking of Gilly would bring us news of him, we ought to hear from him very often; for I am thinking about him all day long,” returned Dorothy, commencing with alacrity to cover the table.

“A mother’s love is a great mystery, Dolly. It never changes like the love of man to woman. It begins before the birth of her little one, and lasts till the hour of death. It is more like the love of God to his creatures. It bears patiently all changes of time and circumstance; forgives every fault; forgets acts of selfishness, neglect and ingratitude; loving on, and hoping on, to the last.”

“Hark!” cried Dorothy, “I hear the wheels grate on the stones in the court-yard. I will take the lanthorn, and help father unharness Jack. Yes, it is he. I hear him speaking to the horse. Now, mother, we shall see if you be a true prophet.”

Dorothy took the light and ran out.

“Well, Doll, here I be, all right. I wor amaist blinded wi’ snow, coming ow’r that confounded heath. Has’t got a good fire? ‘Tis mortal cold. I be all kivered ow’r wi’ snow,” and he stamped his feet and shook a shower of white flakes from his great-coat.

“Go in, father, I will take care of the horse. Mother and I have been on the look out for you for the last hour. Have you brought us good news?”

“Fifty pounds for the wheat, child—ten pounds more than I expected: but wheat has riz five shillings the quarter. Is not that good news, my girl, and the money paid in hard cash into my hand?”

Dorothy drew a long, regretful sigh.

“It might have been better.”

“Lauk, a mercy, child! the women folk be never satisfied. ‘Tis bad news enough for them as has to buy. But that’s no consarn of ours.”

Dorothy led Jack off to the stable, and the half-frozen yeoman turned in to enjoy his cheerful fire. Dorothy was bitterly disappointed. In spite of herself she had endorsed Mrs. Rushmere’s presentiment that she would that night hear tidings of Gilbert, and she felt inclined to murmur against the old lady entertaining such foolish notions.

She rubbed down the pony, gave him his oats and a warm bed, and returned with a sadder heart to the house than when she left it.

After the substantial evening meal was over, and Rushmere had quietly lighted his pipe, and the women resumed their knitting, Mrs. Rushmere asked, in a plaintive voice,

“No news of Gilly, Lawrence?”

“Why, dame, what makes you think thir wor?”

Dorothy looked hard at the old man. She saw a covert smile on his wrinkled face, while his wife pushed her former inquiry.

“Mothers are allers hoping against hope, Larry. I felt so certain that you would bring us some word of him.”

“Father, you have got a letter. I know you have,” cried Dorothy. “I can see it in your eyes,” and she sprang to his side.

“An’ if so be I have, what’s that to you, little minx? Reach down my great-coat. You’ll find my pocket-book in the right side pocket, but don’t toomble any o’ the money out.”

Dorothy searched for the hidden treasure in desperate haste, and placed the letter on the table before him.

“And you had a letter, Lawrence, all this time, and never told us a word about it,” said Mrs. Lawrence, reproachfully.

“I knew the letter wu’d keep,” laughed the farmer, “an’ I wanted you an’ the lass to eat your victuals in quiet. I know’d if you see’d the letter you’d both gang empty to bed.”

“But how could you eat your supper, Lawrence, an’ the letter lying unread in your pocket?”

“I know’d all aboot it,” said Rushmere, with a jolly chuckle. “I got it by heart afore I left the town. It wor that made me so late home. Here, Doll, thee be’est a better scholar nor I, read the letter out to your mother.”

Dorothy’s hand trembled with agitation; she could hardly unfold the precious document, and the tears came so thick and fast to her eyes, that when unfolded, she could hardly see to read it.

“What the deuce ails the girl? Read a little louder, Dolly, for mother an’ I to hear it.”

Dorothy made an effort to control her feelings, and read as follows:—

“Dear and honoured Parents,

“I hope these few lines will meet you in health, as they leave me at this present time, by the blessing of God; and that you have forgiven me for my undutiful conduct in leaving you as I did. I repented directly the false step was taken, but, like a true Briton, I was too proud to go back.

“The regiment only remained in England a week after I listed, when we were ordered off to Portugal, to join the army under Sir John Moore. We had a fine passage, but I was very sea-sick, and home-sick, which I found the worst ailment of the two; and I thought that if I made no better soldier than I did a sailor, I might just as well have remained at the plough.

“But that’s all over. I like the life I have chosen better than when I first entered. We have had hard times, and hard marching through this rough country, but thanks be to God, I have escaped with a whole skin.

“The captain who commands our company is a lad of my own age, born in our part of the country; Lord Fitzmorris, the only son of Earl Wilton, who lives up at the big hall on the hill. By the by, father, he says, that the grand old place once belonged to my forebears. Is that true?”

“In coorse it is,” interrupted old Rushmere. “But ‘tis a long time ago, when he,” nodding to the picture fronting him, “was lord o’ all these manors.”

“I am the captain’s body servant, and he takes great interest in me, and says that he will push me on for your sakes, and make a man of me before the war is over, of which there is no prospect at present. When it comes to fighting, it will be no child’s play, I promise you, and so old Boney will find. We are hard pressed by the enemy, and the army is suffering greatly for the want of food and clothing, and we are hourly expecting an engagement with the French, who are encamped upon the heights above Corunna.

“My dear parents, if I should be killed don’t grieve for my loss. A man can only die once, and if he falls in a good cause, fighting for his country, it is a credit to himself and his parents. Remember me to all the neighbours. Tell Molly Dawson that her son is well of his wound, and has been made a sergeant. Has Nancy Watling succeeded in getting a husband? I don’t flatter myself that she broke her heart on my account, but what would she think of me in my red coat? I suppose I shall find Dorothy married when I come back, with a house full of children. Give my love to her, as to a sister, and tell her to pray for the poor soldiers in Spain.

“God bless you, dear father and mother. I pray that he may once more unite us under the roof of the dear old home. So no more, at this time, from your affectionate son.

“GILBERT RUSHMERE.

“P.S. Tell Dorothy to write a long letter for you. I want to hear all the home news. All about the farm and the horses, and how you got through the harvest without me, and whether Bill Taylor took my place at the last cricket match, and if old Pincher is still alive.

“G. R.”

The letter was read and re-read many times, the delighted parents repeating every word after Dorothy. Holding each other by the hand, they exchanged glances of mutual affection and sympathy.

“The dear boy,” cries the mother. “God bless him! I always knew he would be sorry, when he came to his right mind, and love us as well as ever.”

“Aye,” said the father, “I feel proud o’ my son. He’s o’ the right stuff. He’ll fight like a man, an’ a true Briton, when the time comes, an’ do his duty to his country like a hero.”

Dorothy was the only one in the room who was not quite satisfied with Gilbert’s letter. She was hurt at the clause about herself. If he loved her as she did him, could he speak in that light way about her marrying another, or send his love to her as to a sister—a title, which from boyhood he had always refused to address her by. A change had come over him since they parted; he had grown fonder of his parents, but colder to her. She would not damp their joy, by expressing her disappointment, but she felt it very keenly.

“Mother, you were a true prophet,” she said, closing the letter and giving it back to Mr. Rushmere.

“Aye, child, hearts whisper to hearts, let the distance a’tween them be ever so great. Love can travel in a thought over land and sea. I b’lieve that Gilbert never thinks of me but I know it. I told you, Dorothy, that I should hear from him. I felt it in my heart.”

“The angels don’t whisper such blessed dreams to me,” returned Dorothy, sadly.

“Dolly,” and the old man spoke to her very gravely. “Art dreaming about Gilly yet? I thought you had clean forgotten him.”

“Only as a sister should think of an absent brother,” returned Dorothy, ashamed of the subterfuge. “As Gilbert himself wishes me to remember him.”

“I b’lieve you ha’ a hankering arter the lad yet,” said Rushmere, tartly. “Dorothy, do’ant cross that stile, or maybe you’ll get into a bad road, an’ be left sticking in the mud. It won’t do. It won’t do, lass. I will never gi’ my consent.”

He shook his head, settled himself in his deep leather-backed chair, and puffed away vigorously at his pipe.

“Wait, father, till I ask you for it. If ever I marry Gilbert, it will be your own doing. The time may come when you may both regret that I was not his wife.”

Her speech was interrupted by a loud rap at the door. Pincher sprang up from the hearth-stone, where he lay basking at Dorothy’s feet, with a fierce yell, as if he had received a mortal injury by having his comfortable nap disturbed, and rushed to the heavily barred door, barking furiously.

“Some one has lost their way on the heath,” said Dorothy, laying her hand upon the strong iron bolt that secured the door. “It is a bad night to be abroad, father; shall I let them in?”

“In coorse.”

“Ask first, Dolly, who they be, an’ what they want,” suggested his more cautious wife.

Pincher again lifted up his voice, as if he had a right to be heard in the consultation, and in deep spasmodic fits of barking, remonstrated against admitting strangers at that unreasonable hour.

“Be still, sir,” and Dorothy pushed the old dog rather unceremoniously from the door. “Go, and lie down in the corner, and behave yourself.”

Pincher looked up in her face, and sullenly obeyed, growling as he slowly retreated to the fire, with hair bristling up, and eyes blazing defiance.

Another rap, louder and more importunate, echoed through the large room. “Who’s there?” demanded Dorothy.

“A woman, lost in the snow,” screamed a shrill voice without. “If you be Christians, open the door. I shall freeze to death, if I stand much longer here.”

Dorothy thought of her mother,—back flew bolt and bar, and the heavy door opened to admit a tall gaunt female figure, wrapt up in a red cloak, and carrying a large wicker basket on her arm.

“Mercy, what a night!” cried the stranger, shaking the white flakes from her clothes. “But for the lights in your windows, I must have perished on the heath. Will you give me a bed, good people, for the night, in your barn?”

“Na,” said Rushmere, “we never gi’ people beds in the barn, while there’s room in the house. Sit down by the fire, and warm yourself. My darter will gi’ ye summat to eat, an’ a good pint o’ yell foreby. Dolly, help the woman to take off her cloak.”

The stranger, who had stood in the shade, now came forward to the fire, and Dorothy assisted her to remove her tattered cloak. She was so tall that Dorothy was obliged to rise on tiptoes to render this service, and to her no small disgust, observed that the stranger smelt strongly of gin.

“Why, lass,” said the farmer, laughing, “you be big enough, an’ tall enough, for a grenadier.”

“It requires long legs, and strong ones too,” returned the woman, taking a seat on the settle by the fire, and putting the large basket on her arm beside her, on the floor, “to travel this rough country. I was on my way to Storby, and missed my path crossing the heath. The snow drifted so in my eyes, it was impossible to see the road. Have you any rabbit skins, or hare skins, to sell. Any old clothes, or rags. I do a little business in that line to support my family, but ‘tis hard scratching to get along, these hard times; vittals is so dear, and you country folk expect such bargains, and never trade for cash, that I can’t make much by the exchange.”

“Have you a husband?” asked the farmer.

“No, nor never had, and don’t want one. I’m much better alone. I can lie down mistress and get up master. Married women are slaves. Men think more of their cattle than they do of their wives.”

“That’s just as the case may be,” returned Rushmere. “Some o’ them don’t deserve much consideration. I ha’ allers heard say, a good wife makes a good husband.”

“And how many children have you?” asked Mrs. Rushmere, looking suspiciously at her strange guest.

“Two,” said the woman, “a girl and a boy. They are too young to tramp the roads. I leave them at home with my mother, while I travel the country to earn them bread.”

“And what have you got in your basket?” asked Dorothy, who was as curious as the rest to learn something about their visitor.

“A little of everything. Needles, pins, thread; cotton of both sorts, white and coloured; side-combs for the gals, and pipes and tobacco for the men. Take a look at my wares.”

The gaunt creature rose, and placed the basket on the table before Mrs. Rushmere.

As she stood in the full light of the candle, Dorothy, who had only before caught a partial glimpse of her face, shrunk back as she scanned the vulgar harsh features, and encountered the bold gaze of the tramp. Pincher, who followed close at her heels, gave an ominous growl, and burst off into a fresh paroxysm of barking.

“That’s a cross dog of yours,” cried the woman, kicking at Pincher, with her heavy nailed boots.

“You had better not do that?” said Dorothy. “He’ll bite you if you ill treat him.”

“I wonder you keep such an ugly tempered brute about the house,” retorted the woman. “It is not pleasant to have such a varmint snapping at one’s heels.”

“A brave dog like him is sometimes useful,” remarked Dorothy, pointedly, “especially in a lone place like this. I have only to say, seize her, Pincher! and he’d have you down in a minute.”

“Oh, pray don’t,” cried the woman, with a hoarse cackling laugh, “I don’t covet his acquaintance. I think, though, he’d find me too much for him. In my tramps through the country, I’ve put to silence bigger and stronger brutes than him.”

Again Dorothy tried to examine the heavy dark browed countenance of the stranger, and her investigation only increased her mistrust and aversion.

In the meanwhile, Mrs. Rushmere was eagerly exploring the contents of the big basket, and had lain aside several useful articles, with an intent to purchase.

“What is the price of these?”

The woman turned them over with her large coarse hands, then reckoned up the amount on her fingers.

“Just three shillings.”

“You buy rabbit and hare skins?”

“I would rather take money than trade just now.”

Mrs. Rushmere drew her purse from her pocket; it was a heavy one, as she was her own banker, and it generally contained all the money which she received for the produce of the dairy.

Dorothy, who was standing behind her chair, could not help being struck with the eager hungry glance with which the woman eyed the glittering gold and silver coins, and her face became more dark and repulsive than ever.

“Wife,” put in the farmer, “doan’t be a fule. There be plenty o’ rabbit and hare skins in the shed. If she doan’t trade for them, let her things bide in her basket. It isn’t fair o’ the woman to take silver o’ us an’ skins of t’other folk.”

“You farmers are so cruelly stingy,” said the woman angrily, “you won’t let a body live, and wheat up to five pounds the quarter. I think I saw you in the market, master. You made a better bargain for your grain than exchanging it for old moth-eaten rabbit skins.”

Dorothy again caught the furtive glance of the woman’s evil eyes, and recoiled from it as if she had trodden upon a snake.

After a great deal of chaffering and bargaining for various articles, the tramp consented to receive in payment some fine woollen yarn that dangled from the beams, observing, “that she must turn a penny somehow.” She then put aside the basket, and sat down, to discuss the bread and cheese, and tankard of home-brewed ale, that Dorothy placed on the table for her supper.

“You found the roads bad,” said Rushmere, refilling his pipe.

“Up to the top of my boots,” and the woman lifted up her large foot, which was cased in a heavy highlow, thickly studded with iron nails. “I was near mired, at the lower end of the heath, and began to think I would have to stay there all night. Who would have expected to step into a mud-hole during such a hard frost as this?”

“You be lucky to get out as you did,” said the farmer. “That are be Storby Moss. The ground be allers wet, an’ holds the water like a sponge. Many’s the good beast that’s died in yon quag.”

The woman leaned back upon the settle, stretched her feet to the fire, and began leisurely to examine the large hall, from the well garnished beams above her head, to the iron bars that secured the windows.

“These old houses,” she observed, “are much stronger than the new. The people in the old times knew what they were about when they built them. Arn’t you afraid of being robbed in this lonely out of the way place?”

“Never think of such a thing,” said Rushmere, “we live among honest folk. I keep a good blunderbuss loaded over the door, an’ thieves would na’ find it an easy job to get in through these iron bars. We never keep ony thing o’ value in the house, to tempt them sort o’ chaps, wi’ a bank so near.

“Have another glass o’ ale, lass? Art fond o’ nuts? Dolly, bring some o’ those filberts out o’ the sack in the pantry, and the crackers foreby.”

Dorothy brought her apron full of nuts. “Catch?” she cried, in a laughing tone, as she threw a double handful into the tramp’s lap.

The woman caught them, and laughed too.

Dorothy turned to the dresser, and a strange expression came over her face.

After the woman had eaten the nuts, and seen the bottom of the tankard, she began to yawn, and asked, “if she could lie down and sleep beside the fire?”

“I will show you a room; follow me,” said Dorothy.

The woman seemed very reluctant to accept the offer, pleading various excuses. Her muddy boots, her dirty clothes, and the necessity of her being off by daybreak in the morning, to all of which Dorothy turned a deaf ear, positively insisting on her going to bed.

“Well, if you will have it so, miss, I will no longer refuse a good offer. I have not been inside a bed for many months past, and am used to sleep, wet or dry, in the barn, or by the hearth, as it may happen. People are not generally so anxious about the comfort of visitors like me.”

Dorothy lighted a candle, and led the way up the wide oak staircase at the bottom of the hall to the chambers above.

“You can sleep in this room,” she said, unclosing a door that opened on to the gallery, with which all the sleeping apartments communicated. “You will find water, towel and soap on the stand. You need not be in a hurry to go in the morning. We all rise before daylight, at this time of the year, and you can have your breakfast before you go.”

As she turned to leave the room, the woman suddenly grasped her wrist, and forcibly detained her, staring in her face, with the same bold glance which had inspired such deep loathing.

“Stay, my pretty lass, I can tell your fortune. Tell you the name of the lad you are to marry, the fate of him you are always thinking about, who is away in foreign parts, and all the good luck in store for you.”

“I don’t believe in such folly,” cried Dorothy angrily, wrenching her hand from the woman’s grasp. “It is worse than folly; it is wickedness. Good night. I hope you may sleep well.”

She shut the door. A loud laugh followed her down stairs.

Dorothy, on reaching the great room, sat down in a chair, and panted for breath.

“What is the matter? What ails you, Dolly?” asked the old people, with looks of alarm.

“Nothing—that horrible looking person took hold of me, to tell my fortune. I got frightened and angry, and ran down stairs too fast. That has set my heart in flutter, and taken away my breath. Dear mother, give me a glass of water, and don’t look so pale and scared. It won’t do for us all to play the coward.”

“Why, whatever do you mean, Dolly?” said Mrs. Rushmere, giving her the water. “Is the child crazy?”

“Not quite,” returned Dorothy, trying to laugh, as she gave back to her mother the empty tumbler.

“I will tell you what I mean, for I feel calmer now. I don’t like that woman, if she be really a woman, a fact which I very much doubt. I don’t like her staying in the house, and I have made up my mind not to go to bed tonight, but to sit up and watch till the morning.”

“I saw nothing amiss in the woman, Dolly,” said Rushmere. “She be big, an’ ugly, an’ bold like, but what manners can you expect from the like o’ her?”

“Father,” pleaded Dolly, “it is not that. I am used to poor ignorant rude creatures, but she looks bad. I can’t find words to express the dislike I feel for her. I feel as if she were here for no good. Did you see how she glowered at the money in mother’s purse? I expected every moment that she would make a grab at it—and then the hint, father, she threw out to you, about selling your corn so well in the market. She must have walked quicker here than Jack trotted home. Did you pass any one on the road?”

“Not I. Dolly, you make me feel rather curious about un. But if she wor a thief, she would not ha’ asked if we were afeard of robbers. Na, na, child, go to your bed, there’s naught to fear, an’ a man too in the house.”

“I don’t mean to go to bed,” said Dolly, stoutly. “I’ll tell you my reasons to-morrow morning. I have a bunch of stockings to mend for father; I’ll sit up in the pantry and darn them. Is the gun loaded?”

“Na, Dorothy,” and Rushmere laughed long and heartily, “I told the woman a big lie, just to scare her. It has not been loaded these ten years. I shu’d like to see you trying to pop it off.”

“It’s a pity to keep a useful weapon only for show,” returned Dolly, eyeing the old blunderbuss with looks of regret. “It is like the boy in the fable, crying out wolf, when no wolf was near.”

It was in vain that the old people tried to reason Dolly out of the foolish notion she had taken about the tramp; but finding that she was determined to have her own way, they went to bed, and left her to please herself—not, however, before Dorothy had whispered in her mother’s ear:

“Be sure to lock your door, and pass the big iron bar across it.”

Mrs. Rushmere, who felt more nervous than her husband—for fear is strangely infectious—promised faithfully to observe her injunction.

“And now for the night,” sighed Dorothy, as she returned alone to the great hall. “If it were not for them, I never could muster courage to watch here by myself. How many hours is it yet to day?”

She glanced up at the tall, old-fashioned clock, in its dark mahogany case; a solemn looking piece of antiquity, that had stood on the same spot, and told the lapse of time to many generations of the Rushmeres, who had long ceased to reckon it for ever. It was still ticking on, telling the same tale to the beautiful girl, who now stood before it; and by her, as far she was individually concerned, was as little heeded.

“Only nine o’clock. How many hours I shall have to keep awake.”

Like most hard workers, sleep was a necessity to Dorothy, of so overpowering a nature, that the difficulty with her was not how to go to sleep, but how to keep awake. Of one thing she felt certain; that she was more likely to nod on her post than the strange being who was occupying her neat little chamber above.

She now diligently set to work, to prepare for her long vigil.

First, she raked the fire together; and covered the hot coals with ashes, then she lighted a dark lanthorn, and put on a large great-coat of Mr. Rushmere’s over her other garments; with the further adornment of an old fur cap, the lappets of which she carefully tied under her chin, the better to conceal her identity; she was now ready for action.

Going to the wood-shed, she brought from thence, a small axe, with which she was wont to chop into convenient lengths, the branches of the faggots with which she heated the brick oven for baking.

She ran her finger along the edge of the instrument—Gilbert, when at home, used to keep it nicely sharpened for her use. She shook her head—Gilbert was not at home, and her axe was so blunt that a body might ride to Rumford on it. But then again, she reflected, that any weapon was better than none; so retaining the axe, she retreated into the pantry, a small room that opened into the great hall, from under the staircase, on the side nearest to the fire, and which commanded a full view of the length and breadth of the hall.

No one coming down the stairs could see into the pantry; but any person in the pantry could not fail to hear the slightest step upon the stairs; and by mounting upon a stool and looking through the sky-light above the door, could reconnoitre everything that was passing in the public room.

After diligently investigating the capabilities of the place, and laying down a plan of action, or resistance, as the case might prove. Dorothy descended from her lofty perch on the stool, and met the red gleaming eyes of Pincher intently watching all her movements.

“Pincher, you can’t stay here, poor dog,” she said, patting his head. “If there’s no danger, I shan’t want your services; and if there should be, which the good God forbid, your barking, sir, would betray me.”

The dog seemed to comprehend her meaning; and followed her very quietly into the shed near the back entrance; and having carefully fastened him in, she returned to her post in the pantry.

The door she left purposely half closed, turning the dark side of the lanthorn, so that no gleam from it could be thrown upon the opposite wall, or from the panes above, and taking some coarse woollen stockings from a basket on the dresser, she sat down in front of the lanthorn, with her face to the door, to listen to any sounds that might awaken suspicion.

Hour after hour passed away. The stockings were all mended, and neatly rolled up. Dorothy began to feel drowsy, directly she had nothing left to engage her attention. Once or twice she had nodded upon her chair; and owned to herself that she was horribly sleepy.

The night was very cold, and the fire had gone out. The clock struck one. How loud and solemn it sounded, in the deep stillness that reigned through the house; a stillness always rendered more intense during a heavy fall of snow.

The clock striking that one solitary warning, completely roused Dorothy from her half conscious state. She had so seldom heard it mark that hour, during the deep hush of night, that the unusual sound smote upon her ear like the toll of the death-bell. She thought of the night she had spent upon the heath; and her cheeks grew cold and her teeth began to chatter. Hark! what was that? A deep growl from Pincher, and now a furious barking in the shed. A long, shrill whistle, once or twice repeated. Dorothy cautiously mounted the stool, as a heavy foot sounded on the stairs.

She was wide awake now. The imaginary fears were gone, and she became distinctly conscious of some great impending danger. She was not called upon to battle with the spiritual powers of darkness; but to exercise courage and coolness, in circumventing the wickedness of man—her spirit rose to the emergency, and she felt as brave as a lion. She drew down the dark slides of the lanthorn, and applied her eyes to the panes of glass over the door.

Some one crossed the floor, but the wide hall was still in darkness. It did not long remain so. Raking among the ashes on the hearth, a light was soon obtained by the intruder; and then she saw a dark ill-looking man, approach the table, and set down the candle he had lighted, and cautiously survey the apartment.

Satisfied that he was alone, he took from a side pocket two large horse pistols, and from a belt under his woollen smock frock, a long gleaming knife. He examined the locks of the pistols, cocked them, drew the blade of the murderous looking knife across his thumb, to see if it was in good working order, listened intently, and then cursed the dog for making that “infernal noise!”

His next step was to take some grease from the candle, and apply to the large iron bolts that secured the door, which he cautiously and noiselessly withdrew, went out into the court-yard beyond, and gave the same sharp call whistle that had startled Dorothy from her unquiet sleep.

Now, was her time, or never. Dorothy slipped off her shoes, sprang from her hiding place, and quick as thought, closed upon the robber the massive outer-door, and drew the heavy bolts back to their fastenings. She then hastened to the window and opening the narrow casement, secured on the outside with stout iron stancheons, she fired both the robber’s pistols in succession at two dark figures who were standing a few paces from the house.

A heavy groan and a volley of horrible execrations, followed this daring act; and the ruffian made off dragging with him his wounded or dead comrade.

“Thank God!” cried Dorothy, holding fast to the iron bars, to keep herself from falling. “I have saved their lives and my own.”

The report of the fire-arms awoke Rushmere and his wife, who rushed half dressed down stairs, to see what had happened to Dorothy, who now the reaction had come, had fallen to the floor in a dead faint.

Rushmere lifted her up in his arms, and placed her in his great arm-chair. His wife brought the candle and looked in her death pale face.

“She is not shot, Lawrence. There is no blood upon her that I can see. Bring me some water to dash in her face; she is in a swoon.”

The shock of the cold water soon brought Dorothy to herself.

“That horrible woman, I knew she was a man;” were the first words she uttered. “She came here in disguise to let in the rest of the gang; and they would have robbed and murdered us.”

“And thou hast saved our lives my brave lass,” cried Rushmere, grasping her cold hand, which he was chafing in his own. “Should Gilly ever come back, I will give him this brave little hand myself, and feel proud of my daughter.”

Dorothy bent down and devoutly kissed the old man’s hand. Her heart was too full to utter a word of thanks. She felt, however, that a great victory had been achieved, and that she had fought the battle alone.

“How did you find out, Dolly, that she was a man?” asked Mrs. Rushmere. “I saw nothing very particular about the creature. I thought her large and ugly, that was all.”

“I suspected that she was not a woman when she first came in. She did not step through the house like one, nor look like one. She had such heavy coarse eyebrows, such bold impudent eyes, and such a dark shade about the mouth and chin. When father told me to get the nuts, I determined to try and find out to which sex she belonged, and satisfy my doubts.”

“Mercy, child! you must be a witch if you could tell by that,” said Mrs. Rushmere.

“Oh, it was the easiest test in the world. When I threw the nuts and told her to catch, a real woman would have made a wide lap to receive them; while this creature clapped her knees close together. I knew instantly that it was a man in woman’s clothes, and that he was here for no good; and I determined to keep watch over the house while you slept.”

“Dolly, you be a hero! Yes, so you be,” cried Rushmere. “But how did you keep from screeching out when you found it was a man?”

“That would have betrayed my secret and his; and as he had deadly weapons about him, might have led to the death of us. Indeed, father, I felt too much frightened to say a word.”

“Were you not afraid, Dorothy, to shew him up stairs?” said Mrs. Rushmere.

“Yes, and felt still more afraid, while alone with him there. But our safety depended upon seeming to think him what he pretended to be. My indifference lulled his suspicions to sleep.”

“It has been a wonderful deliverance,” said Mrs. Rushmere, solemnly, “wrought by God, through the hands of a simple country girl. Let us go down upon our knees, Lawrence, and thank Him humbly and heartily, for His great mercy.”

“Amen,” responded the yeoman. “Dorothy, my child, kneel down beside me, and lift up your heart in prayer.”

CHAPTER IX.

DOROTHY GAINS FURTHER KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD.

The next morning, Mr. Rushmere and his hired man, tracked the robbers by their foot-prints in the snow; and the marks of blood that stained its new fallen whiteness, over the low meadows in front of the house down to the sea shore. At the water’s edge, all trace of them was lost. It was evident, however, by many foot marks on the sand at one particular spot, that a boat during the night had been put off from the beach, in which the robbers, in all probability, had effected their escape; and that they formed a portion of a notorious gang of smugglers that infested the coast.

Before noon, Dorothy’s adventure was known all over the parish, and formed the theme of conversation, in the dwellings of both rich and poor. Some applauded her courage and coolness, and lauded the generous self-devotion she had shewn to her foster parents, in hazarding her own life, in the attempt to save them.

But the number of those capable of appreciating the heroism of the young girl was few. The larger portion of the community were the envious detractors and slanderers, who never can see any merit in noble actions, of which they are themselves incapable.

Dorothy in this, as in other matters, had her enemies as well as her friends.

“Only think of that horrible, bold creature—that Dorothy Chance,” said Nancy Watling, addressing a knot of gossips, gathered round the small shop in the village, to retail the news, and procure, on the sly, a little smuggled tea, from the mistress of the establishment. “She has actually gone and shot a man, or next thing to it. Such a wicked unwomanly act. If I were Mr. Rushmere I’d be afraid of her robbing and shooting me.”

“Bless me! Miss Nancy, do tell us how it all happened,” cried Mrs. Lane, the vendor in small wares. “I thought that girl looked as meek as a lamb. I’ll never trust in good looks again.”

“Pray don’t, ma’am, or you’ll be sure to be deceived. She’s a wolf—a perfect wolf. She shot the fellow in cold blood, after he had left the house, and the door was secured against him. I never heard of such a piece of diabolical cruelty.”

“She desarves to be hanged, she do,” cried Letty Barford. “She’d think as little of coaxing a woman’s husband from her, as she wu’d of shooting a thief like a doorg.”

“And did the poor man really die?” asked a pale young woman, hugging a very small red-haired baby closer to her breast, as if she expected this ferocious Dorothy Chance to come and shoot it.

“The goodness knows!” continued Nancy, “it will not be her fault if he escaped.”

“Nonsense, Nancy Watling, how spiteful you be,” remarked the elder Mrs. Barford, joining the group. “Perhaps it’s all false. A tale got up for the nonce, in order to frighten away thieves from the house. I would not like to live in such a lonesome place, and old Rushmere, the only man on the premises of a night. After this I hope they will let the servant board with them.”

“Aha,” cries Letty, “mother’s now just let it out. Doan’t I begin to smell a fox. Dolly played this trick on the old folks to get a young feller into the house. Well, she be a deep un, she be.”

“You may be right, Mrs. Letty,” returned Nancy Watling, “that artful creature is capable of anything.”

Thus her neighbours talked of Dorothy, suggesting the worst motives as the cause of her recent adventure. Fortunately that much abused individual was not conscious of the cruel manner in which her conduct was misrepresented by these worthies, or the envy and malice with which they sought to traduce her. She had little time to listen to the idle tale-bearers, who are ever ready to fetch and carry from house to house ill-natured reports, which, if they do not invent, they never fail to exaggerate, and leave worse than they found them.

Mrs. Rushmere’s health had greatly declined since Gilbert left them, and the entire management of the house now devolved on Dorothy, who, without grudge or grumbling, put out all her strength of body and mind to meet the emergency.

Gilbert had always worked the farm in conjunction with his father, but since he left his home a man had been hired to fulfil the duties which he had recklessly abandoned. This involved considerable trouble and much additional expense. Every exertion was necessary to make the poor farm pay for the extra hand employed.

A larger dairy was necessary, the greatest industry and the strictest economy were called into requisition, to make both ends meet, and lay by a little for the future.

Dorothy was up with the dawn, and the night was often far advanced, before the labours of the day were finished. Her board and clothing, the latter of the very plainest description—was all that the noble-hearted girl received for her unremitting toil.

Weary and overtasked, she never repined. The Rushmeres had protected her friendless childhood; they were Gilbert’s parents, and that was enough to satisfy the warm loving heart, that only lived for him and them—her unselfish nature needed no stronger stimulus for exerting herself in their behalf.

She was often told by busy tattlers that she was a fool for working so hard for such poor wages, that she would earn a better living for herself elsewhere; but she always silenced these mischief-makers, by coldly telling them “to mind their own business, that she was comfortable and contented, and stood in no need of their advice and assistance.”

She would have found a great consolation in writing to Gilbert, and telling him all the troubles that had befallen her since they parted; but on a careful examination of his letter, she perceived that he had omitted to give them his direction, or the slightest clue to discover his whereabouts, and she was forced to abandon the idea. He had written once—it was more than probable that he would soon write to them again.

But then—that terrible battle that was to be fought, haunted her mind like a waking nightmare. He might be killed, and those to whom he was so dear might never learn his fate till the regiment returned to England. Then tears would cloud the beautiful black eyes, and the labours of the long day fell more heavily from the willing hands. She could not cheer the absentee with the home news, for which he craved so eagerly; she could only prove her undying love, by infusing fresh hope into the drooping hearts of his parents, and praying for his safety.

In January, the battle of Corunna was fought, and the heroic Sir John Moore found a soldier’s grave upon the ramparts of the city.

Lawrence Rushmere came home from market greatly excited. He had borrowed the county paper of a farmer he knew, and Dorothy was called to read to the old people the thrilling account of the battle, that had been dearly bought by the loss of the gallant British leader.

The –- regiment was spoken of in the highest terms; it had been in the heat of the action, and had been terribly cut up.

The number, not the names of the private soldiers who had been killed, was alone recorded. Captain Fitzmorris was mentioned as having been severely wounded—the rest of the sad list were all strangers to them.

There was a long pause.

Dorothy softly put down the paper, and walked to the window. Her lips were silent, but her heart poured forth an earnest prayer for her absent lover. She heard the deep sobs of his mother, and her own tears gushed forth, to relieve the intolerable anguish of suspense—that worst torture of the human heart.

Rushmere was the first to speak. His voice was husky and tremulous. “I’m not a rich man,” he said, “yet I would almost give all I have in the world to know this hour that I have a living son.”

“Oh, my boy! my Gilly!” cried the fond mother, “we shall yet see him again!”

“Whether he be dead or living,” continued the farmer, too much absorbed by his own anxious fears to notice the words of his wife, “I am sartain sure that he acquitted himself like a man. Aye, that a’ did.” His eyes kindled as he raised them to the picture over the mantel-shelf. “An’ no thanks to him. Is he not a Briton, wi’ the blood of brave men running in his veins? To fight well for his country, an’ to die for’t, if need be, was only what his fathers did afore him. Courage was born in ‘em all.”

The burst of enthusiasm over, the old man closed his eyes, and sank back in his chair, muttering, in a subdued voice.

“Ah, it’s very fine talking, but natur is natur after all. It doth not remove the fear that’s gnawing at my heart about the lad. What do’st thou say, dame?”

He opened his eyes wide, to keep back the fast coming tears, and fixed them with an earnest gaze upon the meek pale face of his wife.

She rose up slowly from her seat, came behind his chair, and pulling his head back, bent reverently down and kissed his broad forehead.

“God comfort thee, Lawrence. He knows what is best for us. I can’t feel that Gilly is dead. Something in my heart tells me that he is living. I never mistrust that voice.”

“God bless you, mother dear, for the cheering hope,” said Dorothy, smiling through her tears. “You were a true prophet before. Why should you be deceived now? How I wish,” she continued in a sadder tone, “that I had more faith. That I could really believe that Gilbert was safe and well.”

“My heart seldom deceives me,” said the old lady, “or I should say, that mysterious something that speaks in my heart. While God gives us this blessed hope, I don’t think it right to look only on the dark side of things. ‘Tis mistrusting His providence.”

Mr. Rushmere had no such hope. Nothing would convince him that his son was alive. The more his kind wife exerted herself to comfort him, the more obstinately he persisted in maintaining his own sombre views. Mrs. Rushmere thought that a good night’s rest would restore his mind to its usual serenity. She was mistaken. He never slept that night at all, but kept lamenting for Gilbert, and calling upon him through the long hours of darkness; accusing himself of being the cause of his death, by refusing to santion his marriage with Dorothy.

“And the poor little maid,” he said, “it was piteous to look in her face an’ see her pining away for the loss o’ her sweetheart. He had been a cruel hard father. It was only just that he should be punished for his pride and avarice.”

Dorothy tried to master her own mental sufferings, (for, like the old man, she believed that Gilbert was dead,) in order to lessen his sorrowful self-upbraidings, till she could bear the agonies of suspense no longer, and determined to take a bold step to ascertain the truth.

Lord Wilton had just returned to Heath Hall, and was the father of the Captain Fitzmorris, under whom Gilbert served. She argued that it was more than probable that he had heard from his wounded son, and through him they might obtain some news of Gilbert. It was a forlorn hope, but drowning people catch at straws. She would say nothing to the old people, but go herself, and see Lord Wilton, and try if he would interest himself in their behalf, and find out if their son had been killed in the engagement.

When once this idea had taken possession of her mind, she could not rest until it was carried out. She had many fears and misgivings on the subject, but love conquered them all, and she resolved to make the effort as soon as her morning’s work was over.

The aristocracy in the present day are not regarded with the solemn awe, that their very names inspired among the peasantry sixty years ago. A great lord was a sort of demi-god in his own district; it would have been sacrilege to imagine that he was made of the same flesh and blood as his tenants and hirelings.

People lowered their voice, and spoke of him in mysterious tones, when they mentioned his name and told of his doings. If they met upon the road, they stood with uncovered heads, till the majestic presence had passed by, without daring to lift their eyes to his face, lest he should feel annoyed by their vulgar gaze.

They all knew that King George was their lawful sovereign, and every fourth of June they met in the nearest town, to shout his name and drink his health on his birth-day, and felt very loyal and very proud of their sovereign. But they had never seen this famous king, and only knew of him by hearsay.

It was after all the great man of the parish, the lord of the manor, to whom their real homage was given, whom they regarded as their legitimate ruler. It was he who fixed their tithes and rent, and was the stern magistrate before whom they appeared at the quarter sessions to answer to complaints and misdemeanors.

Dorothy had never seen Lord Wilton. He had inherited a very fine estate in Devonshire through his mother. Preferring the climate and scenery of that country to his own, he rarely visited Heath Hall, the genial breezes of the south, agreeing much better with a shattered constitution, than the rude gales of the bleak north-east coast. It was only lately that he had returned to his native place, and had expressed, in an eloquent speech, made at a public dinner given on the important occasion, his determination of ending his days in the home of his ancestors.

Great had been the rejoicing of his tenantry at the return of their long absent landlord. An insolent overbearing steward had reigned absolute monarch of the soil, during a long period of fifteen years. A most unpopular substitute, hard and exacting, who had carried things with a high hand, extorting from the tenantry a fortune, at the expense of his lord’s reputation.

But this was all changed. The unjust steward had been discharged, and Lord Wilton had gained golden opinions from his poorer neighbours, by listening kindly to their relation of grievances, and redressing them to the best of his ability.

His return had formed the nine day’s wonder of Hanstone, his name was in everybody’s mouth, and people were never tired of talking about him, of his personal appearance, his politics, his religious opinions, which they observed were peculiar, his great wealth, and even his long cherished grief for a wife, who had been dead upwards of twenty years, and for whose sake he had remained a widower for the best period of his life.

Some called him proud, some called him cold and reserved, but all agreed that he was a good man, though rather eccentric, and very kind to the poor.

He went very little into society, was seldom a day absent from the Hall, but took great seeming delight in long rambles on foot, or on horseback, about the parish, visiting the sick poor, and dispensing his charity with his own hands.

A pale, silent melancholy man, of temperate habits and literary tastes, and scarcely likely to become popular among a set of rude agriculturists, Lord Wilton was not only popular but beloved by all classes, for he was alike gentlemanly and benevolent to all.

He had been a soldier in his youth, and had fought bravely for his country, but a serious wound, received during the American war, had injured his health, and unfitted him for active service. He had possessed great political influence, and had earned the reputation of an eloquent speaker in the house; but he had withdrawn from the public arena, as if tired with the world and all things in it, to end his days in the quiet and retirement of the country.

Dorothy had heard all these circumstances in his lordship’s history discussed at church and market, and she felt a great awe of the big man, and the idea of appearing before him, in her rustic simplicity, troubled her exceedingly. In vain she said to herself,

“He is but a man. Is it not cowardly to feel afraid of him? If he does not return me an answer, or refuses to listen to me, it won’t kill me. I can’t see father pining and fretting himself to death about his son, without doing something to relieve his mind. I will go, come what may. Besides,” she added, with charming candour, “I want to hear news of Gilbert as badly as he does.”

Having arrived at this conclusion, Dorothy dared not wait to let her courage cool, but dressing herself very neatly, slipped out at the back-gate, and took her way over the fields to Heath Hall.

Pincher met her in the lane, but she sternly told him “to go home,” fearing lest his rugged appearance, and countrified manners, might not suit the high bred dogs at the Hall.

It was a keen frosty morning, cold but cheery looking. Gleams of pale sunshine rested upon the mossy trunks of the mighty oak trees, that flanked the entrance to the park, and danced and quivered among the fantastic shapes thrown by their leafless branches on the ground. The air was clear and bracing, the crisp grass, with its coating of crystal, rustled beneath her feet, as Dorothy walked briskly forward, in spite of her trepidation and fears for the result of her visit, charmed by the beauty of the scene.

The carriage road to the Hall was a long gradual ascent, winding among picturesque clumps of stately forest trees, the old building crowning the height of the hill, a grand baronial edifice, built in the middle ages, whose massy walls and towers seemed to bid defiance to decay.

A flight of broad stone steps led to the entrance, but Dorothy knew that that carved and ornamented door was never opened but to titled guests, and she stole round, unobserved, to the back of the house, and rang at the gate that led to the servants’ hall.

Her gentle summons was answered by a tall powdered footman in blue and silver livery.

“Miss Dorothy Chance! is that you? What has brought you out this cold morning? Fresh butter and eggs, I suppose. Have you any with you to sell?”

“Not before the end of next week, Mr. Frisk,” returned Dorothy, with a curtsey. “Our cows have fallen off greatly since the winter set in, and all the eggs I can get now are from a few March pullets, who began to lay some days ago.”

She looked up and smiled pleasantly, then added, in a lower tone, “I came on a little private business of my own. Can I speak with Mrs. Brand?”

Mrs. Brand was the housekeeper, and well-known to Dorothy, from whom she generally bought most of her dairy produce, and one, whom Dorothy commonly specified as “the dear old lady at the Hall.”

Mrs. Brand had filled the important place of housekeeper for two generations, her own identity being completely merged in the superior grandeur of the family with whom she served. In her own estimation there was no such person as Mrs. Brand. The housekeeper to the great Lord Wilton, was honour enough to satisfy her moderate ambition.

She was a busy bustling little woman, in a lace cap and rich black silk gown, who reigned in undisputed dignity over the domestics in the establishment. Held in great esteem by her noble master, Mrs. Brand was consulted by him on all matters of minor importance. Through her all his orders were conveyed to the servants, from her they received their wages, and were retained or discharged according to her pleasure. She was treated by them with a certain degree of homage, little inferior to that which they would have accorded to the legitimate mistress of the house.

The old lady knew her power, and exercised it wisely and well, and truly deserved the character bestowed upon her by her lordly master.

“An honest faithful woman, who had the interest of the family at heart, and who saved him a deal of trouble in the management of his domestic affairs.”

Dorothy Chance and her strange history were both well-known to Mrs. Brand. She had often called at Heath Farm, to order supplies of fresh butter and cream-cheese, and always spoke of the beauty and industry of the foundling in terms of praise, which had made her name quite familiar among the people at the Hall.

Mrs. Brand was busy reckoning up her weekly accounts, in her own pleasant little room, when Mr. Frisk rapped at the door, and putting in his powdered head, said, in his blandest tones,

“I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but here is Dorothy Chance from the Farm, wishing to speak with you.”

Putting aside her papers, with rather a vexed air—(for the ordering of her accounts was always a great task to the good housekeeper,)—she told the tall footman to show the young woman in.

“Well, Dorothy,” she cried, holding out her hand to the bright girl, as she stood all glowing and radiant from her walk before her, “what is your business with me?”

“Please, ma’am,” returned Dorothy, blushing with pleasure at her kind reception, “I came to ask of you a very great favour.”

“Indeed! What is it, child? Do you wish to go into respectable service? Is it a character you require? If so I will give you a good one, with my whole heart.”

“Oh, no, ma’am, I am not going to leave home again. I wanted to say a few words in private to my lord.”

The old lady took off her spectacles, and looked sharply at Dorothy.

“What can a young girl like you have to say to my lord? Will not saying it to me do quite as well?”

“Perhaps it would. But indeed, Mrs. Brand, I would rather, if you think I am not too bold, say what I have to say to him myself.”

The housekeeper shook her head doubtingly—

“Did you ever speak to Lord Wilton before?”

“Never. I don’t even know him by sight.”

Mrs. Brand looked relieved.

“Then what can you have to say to him, my dear?”

“It is a little private business of my own.”

Mrs. Brand looked very serious.

“Have any of the servants here been making love to you, Dorothy?”

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” and Dorothy laughed merrily, “I know as little of them as I do of his lordship.”

“Lord Wilton is a single man,” said Mrs. Brand, gravely. “Do you think it quite prudent for a young girl to ask him questions?”

Dorothy looked puzzled. She certainly did not comprehend Mrs. Brand’s prudery.

“You see, ma’am,” she continued, with the same charming frankness, “our Gilbert is with the army in Spain, and serves in the same regiment with Captain Fitzmorris, my lord’s son. A great battle has been fought at Corunna, and we don’t know whether Gilbert has been killed or not. Mr. Rushmere is fretting himself to death with anxiety about his son. I thought that Lord Wilton might be able to give us some information respecting him, and if I could but speak to himself, and tell him all the anguish we are suffering, I feel certain, by the character for benevolence that he bears, that he would either confirm or remove our apprehensions, by writing to his son, whose servant Gilbert is.”

“Aye—now you talk sense, Dorothy. You should have told me this at first. I have no doubt that his lordship will do what he can for you. Poor dear man, he has been in great trouble about Viscount”—Mrs. Brand placed a particular emphasis upon the title, as if to reprove Dorothy for her omission of it—“Fitzmorris, ever since he saw in the papers that he was badly wounded. He has shut himself up, and scarcely tasted food since he got the news. It may be some relief to his mind to know that a neighbour is fretting about an only son too. Sit down, Dorothy, I will go to his study and see if my lord can speak with you.”

In a few minutes the good woman returned, and told Dorothy to follow her to the library.

“His lordship,” she said, “was engaged just then finishing a letter, and would see her presently.”

As they were leaving the housekeeper’s room, Mr. Frisk again presented himself, and with a low bow to Mrs. Brand, and a stare of intense admiration at Dorothy, informed the elder female that Mrs. Martin, the curate’s wife, was waiting to speak to her.

“Tell her to step in here, Frisk, I will be back directly. Something about the Sunday-school, that my lord is about to establish,” whispered Mrs. Brand to Dorothy. “They cannot get on without consulting me. This Mrs. Martin, our curate’s wife, my lord wants to be superintendent of the school. My lord says, she is a clever, well-educated person, and he knows best; but between ourselves, I think her a poor, broken-spirited, yea and forsooth, young woman, with a large small family, and a nursing baby. She does not like the project at all.

“‘Mrs. Brand,’ says she, ‘these Sunday-schools may answer very well in great cities, where the people are so wicked, but take my word for it, they will never do in a country-place, where the houses are so far apart, and the children have such a distance to come, and the winter days are so short. Besides, what’s the use of my lord making such a fuss about teaching the poor. Does he want his servants to be as clever as himself—to read his books and papers instead of dusting his library. Learning and wealth make the only distinction between him and his people. If he gives them the one, the other will soon follow. It’s little the poor folks will care for the title of my lord, when they find out that their title of free men possesses more real dignity.’

“Yes, my dear, she had the impudence to speak of the nobility in that disrespectful manner, as if there was nothing at all in blood, or superiority of race.”

“I thought it was the fine clothes and the money made the difference,” suggested Dorothy, whose feelings were not so decidedly aristocratic as those of the well-paid domestic. “That, at least, in the church, the rich and poor met together, and the Lord was the maker of them all.”

“And so He is, Dorothy, for the Bible says so; but it is after a different fashion, as you will see, when you look at the pictures in the library of my lord’s ancestors.”

“Ancestors! what be they?”

“Why, Dorothy, are you so ignorant? Did you never hear father Rushmere talk of his ancestors? He comes of a good race. I have heard my lord say, that in the old times the Rushmeres owned this grand house, and nearly all the land in this and the neighbouring parish.”

Dorothy opened wide her large black eyes, full of surprise and wonder, and she looked around the vast hall they had entered, with its marble pavement and magnificent staircase of polished oak, in whose broad steps she could see the reflection of her own sweet face, and the beautiful carved railings presented fine specimens of mediæval art.

“The Rushmeres don’t look different now,” she said, “from other folk. What brought about the change?”

“They fought against their lawful king. Traitors are always punished, and so it has happened to them.”

“But could that change the blood?” asked Dorothy.

“My dear, you have heard of wine turning sour when exposed to the common air. A clear stream becomes impure when it flows into a muddy marsh.”

Dorothy, with her shrewd common sense, could not comprehend Mrs. Brand’s philosophy, and she thought it better not to contradict her, so reverting back to the Sunday-school, she inquired when it was to go into operation.

“Directly my lord can get teachers to suit him. Mrs. Martin says, that she can’t attend to it after the service, on account of her baby, and having to see to the other children, and she begged me to make her excuses to my lord. I thought that he’d be terribly angry. But, God bless him, he only laughed, and, says he, ‘Mrs. Brand, the poor woman is right. But I don’t mean my school to be knocked on the head by Mrs. Martin’s baby. How many children have they?’

“‘Lots, my lord,’ says I. ‘Parsons have always large families. The poorer they be, the more children.’ Then he laughs again. ‘Do they keep a nurse-maid, Mrs. Brand?’

“‘Ah, my lord, they have barely enough to keep themselves. He has not more than eighty pounds a year.’

“Then he sighs, and says, ‘Ah, that is sad. I must see to that. The poor soul might well begrudge the time to be spent in attending to the school. Her own children have the first claim upon a mother’s heart. When next Mrs. Martin calls, I must see her, Mrs. Brand.’

“Now, Dorothy, this is my lord’s library,” continued the voluble housekeeper, showing her young companion into a spacious apartment fronting the park. “I must leave you here, while I go down to Mrs. Martin. You can amuse yourself by looking at the pictures till my lord comes.”

“And how am I to address him?” cried Dorothy, turning faint with fear.

“Curtsey to him, when he comes into the room, and ask his pardon for the liberty you take in venturing to speak to him, and then tell him your business, in as few words as you can.”

“Am I to call him my lord every time I address him?”

“Of course. But don’t seem afraid of him. He says that he hates people to worship him, as if he were an idol of flesh and blood. He likes a man to speak out his mind like a man, which you know is very condescending on his part. He will find very few men in the country that dare do it.”

Dorothy thought she knew one, as the good woman closed the door, and left her alone in the magnificent apartment. Perhaps she was wrong in her estimate. Time will prove. And then she drew an involuntary sigh, when she recalled the housekeeper’s words that the Rushmeres had, in the old times, been the owners of Heath Hall, and had lost it, because they could not bow down to idols of flesh and blood.

CHAPTER X.

DOROTHY AND LORD WILTON.

Was Dorothy dreaming—could she really be awake—when she first stepped into that lofty room, and gazed upon her magnificent surroundings—was she in fairy land—was that the every day sun, that was pouring a flood of wintry light upon gilded cornice and carved panel—upon inlaid tables, covered with miniature gems of art, collected at great expense from distant lands?

The best, the only oil paintings Dorothy had ever seen, were the pictures on the door of the cupboard, in the hall at Heath Farm. She had always thought them very terrible and beautiful—she did not know that they once had formed a part of the collection, which now dazzled her sight upon these walls. That persons competent to judge of their merit would in after years pronounce them of priceless value.

“Oh, what a beautiful place. It is too grand to be inhabited by people who have to work for their daily bread—who have to wear mean clothes, and soil their hands with disagreeable labour.”

A deep sigh—the first of unfeigned regret for her lowly station—perhaps of envy—broke from the lips of the wondering girl.

She was just then standing before a large mirror, which not only reflected her full length figure, but almost every other object in the room.

Why does she start and gaze so intently into its magic depths. Is it the reflection of that lovely face—so fresh and glowing from the hands of the great life artist; which she has never beheld to such advantage before; that brings the heightened colour to her cheeks and upon which she gazes with such pride and pleasure? She stands spell bound. One hand lightly raised, her eyes immoveably fixed upon the glass.

“Well, my pretty girl,” said a rich mellow voice at her side, “what do you think of the picture?” This was said half in jest, half in earnest.

Dorothy started. “It is very beautiful.”

“I think so too,” returned the stranger, who was no other than Lord Wilton himself, smiling at the simplicity of his charming young visitor.

“Did you ever see it before?”

“Never!” said Dorothy, without removing her eyes from the mirror. “Is not the likeness wonderful? It makes me feel half afraid, as if the soul of the lady had returned to earth in me.”

“I see, I see what you are looking at now; yes, it is the same face, the same dark liquid eyes, the same rich wealth of raven hair,” and he pointed to one of the beautiful family portraits, suspended upon the wall behind them; whose face was faithfully reflected in the glass, side by side with that of the young country maiden.

“What a strange coincidence! can this be a mere freak of nature!” he continued musingly. “My good girl who are you, and what is your name?”

There was an eager restless expression in the nobleman’s melancholy dark eyes, as he turned to Dorothy and gazed upon her with a glance which penetrated to her inmost soul.

Dorothy rightly surmised that the stranger was Lord Wilton. Her attention had been so forcibly drawn to the picture, that she only now began to recognize the fact. She thought that he was displeased by the familiar manner in which she had addressed him, and turning pale, began visibly to tremble.

“Forgive me, my lord, for not calling you by your title; I meant to do so, but indeed, you took me by surprise; I hardly knew to whom I was speaking.”

And poor frightened Dorothy stopped, overwhelmed with the consciousness of her rudeness and presumption, and made several low and, for her, very graceful curtseys.

Her companion regarded her with an amused but serious smile, “speak to me as you would to any other gentleman, and now answer my question. What is your name?”

“Dorothy Chance, my lord.”

“Dorothy!” again he turned upon her that strange eager glance. “That lady’s name was Dorothy!” and he looked up at the picture with a sigh. “She was the best of women. My dear and honoured mother—the Lady Dorothy Granville. Who are your parents? Who in this neighbourhood bears such an odd name as Chance?”

“No one, my lord, saving myself, and I come by it oddly enough. I am the child of whom your lordship may have heard, who farmer Rushmere found upon the heath fifteen years ago, clinging to the bosom of her dead mother, who, it was supposed, perished during the night in a fearful storm. I could only just speak a few broken words, and could tell nothing about my poor mother, only that she called me her Dolly; so the good farmer had me christened Dorothy Chance, to signify that I came to him by chance. His wife adopted me as her daughter, and I have lived with them ever since.”

Lord Wilton listened with breathless attention. “Did your foster parents ever find out who your mother was?”

“She was a stranger in these parts, no one had ever seen her before.”

“Was there anything on her person, or in her appearance by which she could be identified.”

“Nothing, my lord. Father has often told me that she must have been very poor; that he never saw a body so wasted by starvation and misery. Her clothing was very scanty and ragged, and composed of the coarsest materials, begged, he supposed, from some poor creature, not quite so destitute as herself. She was very young, and he thought, at one time, must have been very pretty. He cut off a lock of her hair—I have it here, my lord,” and Dorothy took from her neck a black ribbon, to which was suspended a large old-fashioned silver locket, and put it into Lord Wilton’s hand. It contained a thick tress of golden brown hair.

He took the sad memento, all that remained to the poor girl of her mother, with a trembling hand, and went to the window to examine it.

Over his pale face a more deadly pallor stole. He looked at it with a long earnest gaze, then returned it with a deep sigh to the wondering girl.

“And this is all.”

“All but a plain wedding ring which I have on my finger.”

“Oh! let me see that.”

“It is just like any other ring of the sort, my lord. It can tell nothing.”

She held out her small sunburnt hand.

He clasped it eagerly in his own, and with some difficulty, drew the ring from her finger.

This underwent the same strict scrutiny that he had bestowed upon the locket, but his countenance betrayed still deeper emotion.

“Keep that ring!” he said solemnly, replacing it upon her finger. “Keep it as you would your life. It may be the means of restoring you to him who put it on your mother’s finger. And the locket—was that hers?”

“No, my lord; it was given to me by Mrs. Rushmere.”

“And these people—these Rushmeres—are they kind to you, Dorothy?”

“Yes, very kind. The only friends I have in the world.”

“And what brought you to see me this morning?”

“Oh, my lord, it was on their account I came. They have an only son—Gilbert Rushmere. Last summer—it was just in the middle of the hay tide, and we were very busy at the farm—Gilbert quarrelled with his father about me.” Dorothy looked down and blushed.

“Go on, my good girl!”

“We had loved each other from boy and girl; but the old man would not give his consent to our marriage, and I would not marry Gilbert without. Father was so angry that he told me to leave the house, and hoping to make peace by so doing, I left and went to live at Hadstone with Mrs. Barford. I did not stay away long. Gilbert went and listed for a soldier, and I came back to comfort the old people in their trouble. Father would have bought Gilbert off, but he did not get the bad news until after he had sailed; and we have been so unhappy ever since.”

Here Dolly’s voice, which had sank almost to a whisper, failed her altogether, and she turned from Lord Wilton to wipe away the tears that were streaming down her rosy cheeks.

“Why did Mr. Rushmere object to his son marrying a good industrious girl like you?”

“Ah, my lord, can you wonder at it?” sobbed Dorothy. “From my heart I never blamed him. The old man is proud—is come of a good stock; Gilbert is his only son; he could not bear that he should take for his wife the child of some nameless beggar. It was too much for me to ask or expect at his hands. After Gilbert was gone he relented, but it was too late then. Gilbert wrote some time ago, and told us that he was reconciled to his new life, and was serving in the –- regiment under your son, Captain Fitzmorris, whose servant he was; that they were hourly expecting an engagement with the French. Oh, my lord, the battle has been fought, and we have not heard from Gilbert.”

Dorothy wrung her hands in uncontrollable anguish. “Mr. Rushmere is in despair. He will believe that his son is killed; and I slipped away unknown to him this morning to ask your lordship if you could tell me anything about him.”

“My poor girl, I will make inquiries respecting him, and let you know. I am just writing to my son. God knows if he be still alive. I can only hope and trust in his mercy. My mind, Dorothy, is just now overwhelmed by the same horrible anxiety which you find so hard to bear. This cruel suspense, this hope, which keeps alive despair, is the most painful of human maladies.”

He walked several times through the spacious apartment in deep thought, then suddenly returning to the side of the weeping girl, he took her hand and pressed it warmly between his own.

“Dry your tears, Dorothy; you have deeply interested me in your sad history. You shall never want a friend while I live. If Gilbert Rushmere returns, and money be the only obstacle that separates you, tell Mr. Rushmere that I will give you a wedding portion that shall more than satisfy him.”

“My lord, I would rather you would not,” said Dorothy, in a tone of alarm, withdrawing her hand, and looking as proud as the lady whose portrait she so strongly resembled. “If I am not worthy to be his daughter, penniless as I am, money could never purchase the love and respect I crave, and which could alone make me happy.”

“Bravo! my little heroine,” cried Lord Wilton, the kindling cheeks and flashing eyes of Dorothy filling him with surprise and admiration. “Your nobility exceeds mine; I am only noble by birth, but your lofty spirit springs from a greatness of mind inherent in your nature.”

“My lord!” said Dorothy, “you speak too highly of that which I only consider my duty. I feel most grateful to you for your kindness, for your generous sympathy in my sorrow, but I cannot accept your bounty. And now I will leave you, and carry your gracious promise about Gilbert, to his parents, which will dry their tears and make them very glad.”

With a low reverence, the country girl glided from the room.

Lord Wilton remained standing by the table where she left him; his arms folded, his eyes bent upon the ground, lost in profound thought. An expression of intense mental suffering passed over his face; he clasped his hands tightly together and spoke unconsciously aloud.

“At last the long search is over. The hope deferred—the agony of doubt and fear has culminated in the grave. Death—and such a death! Oh, my God! I see—I feel it all. Destitute—forsaken—alone. Her sole attendants, starvation and despair—perhaps crime. Who can tell the straits to which misery may have reduced its unfortunate victim. To die amidst storm and darkness with a helpless little one clasped to the fond heart growing cold and unconscious, in the chill embrace of the destroyer. Alice, my beloved, my lost darling, such then was your fate. *

“Were your last thoughts with me in that desolate hour? Did you forgive me, for the sorrow and suffering which my selfish love had drawn down upon that innocent head. If you can read my heart, pity me, oh pity me, for I am desolate and in misery! Never, never can we meet again. Never can I now make atonement for the wrongs I inflicted. Never hope for peace or happiness again. The past irrevocable—the future a blank. Remorse may punish—it cannot restore. The vain regrets—the unsatisfied cravings of the tortured heart, have made earth a hell for the last twenty years, and vengeance is now complete. Oh, my God, have mercy upon me! I cry to Thee in the stilly night. I stretch my hands out to Thee in the darkness, but no answer of peace comes to my agonized prayers.”

He bowed his head upon his trembling hands. The storm of conscience swept on—all its waves went surging over his soul, and broke forth in stifled moans, wrung from the depths of the bruised and tortured heart. At length he grew calmer, and began to reason on the facts of the case.

“I may be mistaken. What proof have I that the nameless vagrant was my lost love? A lock of sunny hair—a ring—the likeness of her child to me and mine. The cold unfeeling men of the world would laugh such evidence to scorn.”

He glanced up at his mother’s picture, and his thoughts took a new turn. “Yes, that lovely girl is her child. Did not my heart burn within me, while she was talking with me? Did I not long to clasp her in my arms and claim her as my own—the all that is left me of my beloved?

“I will restrain my feelings. I will not take her from her happy obscurity—separate her from the man she loves. The secret which her mother kept so bravely for my sake, which she carried down with her to the grave, shall rest there. I will keep down my swelling heart—will chain my lips in eternal silence, and prove my love for her by self-abnegation.”

A low rap at the door was several times repeated before it was noticed by Lord Wilton.

“My lord,” said Mrs. Brand, presenting herself before him, with her usual deep reverence, “Mrs. Martin is below, and wishes to speak with you.” Struck with the unusual paleness of her master’s face, and its melancholy expression, she said, with maternal anxiety.

“My lord, you are ill. You must not give way about Lord Fitzmorris. His wounds may not be so dangerous as they are represented. Newspapers do not always tell the truth.”

“Mrs. Brand, he is my only son,” returned the nobleman, not sorry to find his grief attributed to a legitimate cause. “The uncertainty respecting him depresses me greatly. If I knew the worst, I could bear it like a man. Show Mrs. Martin up. I can speak to her now.”

Mrs. Martin was a thin delicate looking woman, very pale, and very care-worn, with an expression of patient endurance in her face, painful to behold. She was no worshipper of rank or wealth, though a perfect lady in her appearance and manners. Experience had taught her that money was an imperative want, by no means to be despised; that without an adequate supply the necessaries of life could not be procured. That love in a cottage was a pleasant dream. The waking reality by no means so agreeable.

“My lord,” she said, addressing him with great candour and firmness, “I have given your proposal the most careful consideration, and willing as I am to oblige you, and to discharge a Christian duty, I find that I cannot conscientiously undertake the management of your school. I have six children. The eldest a boy of nine years old, the youngest a baby of only three months.”

Her pale cheeks flushed.

“We are too poor, my lord, to keep a servant. I take care of my own children, and do the work of the house. Henry is too young to be entrusted with the charge of so many little ones during my absence at school, and my mind would be so full of anxiety about them, that I could not attend to my scholars as I could wish. I hope you will take these unfortunate circumstances as a sufficient apology for my declining the situation.”

“We are all called upon to make sacrifices for the good of our fellow-creatures, Mrs. Martin, but we must not do so at the expense of more sacred duties. I should be sorry to lay upon you, my dear madam, a burthen greater than the one you have already to bear. Now listen to what I have to propose, and I think we can arrange the matter to our mutual satisfaction. Mr. Conyers, the vicar, allows your husband eighty pounds a year for his ministerial services. A small remuneration for a well-educated man, and a good preacher, who has to support a large family and pay rent for the cottage in which he resides.

“The vicar draws from the parish an income of fifteen hundred per annum, and could afford to give more. I now propose to allow you one hundred a year for taking charge of my school. Will you accept my terms, and by so doing confer upon me a great obligation?”

Mrs. Martin burst into tears. “Oh, my lord, it would make our desert blossom as the rose, and give the poor children bread and meat, where they now only get a scanty supply of bread and milk. In our daily prayers, we shall not forget to ask our Heavenly Father to bless you for your munificence.”

“I am not quite so disinterested and benevolent as you think me,” returned the lord of the manor, deeply moved by her tears, for Mrs. Martin was the last person in the world from whom he would have expected such a display of feeling.

“This school is a pet scheme of mine. I do not like to be disappointed. The miserable ignorance of the peasantry is a disgrace to the landed gentry, and loudly calls for reform. I want to lend a hand in washing out this foul national blot, and the co-operation of the clergy and their wives must be obtained, to do this in a proper Christian spirit. Their example will provoke to emulation the wives and daughters of the wealthy yeomanry; and after a few weeks you will find that we shall have plenty of pupils and teachers to assist in the good work.”

Lord Wilton spoke with enthusiasm, for the subject was very near his heart. Mrs. Martin who knew the poorer classes better than he did, and their decided aversion to book learning, looked rather incredulous. This was not the only difficulty to be overcome. The prejudice that existed in the minds of the agricultural employers to their servants being taught, was yet stronger than the indifference and apathy manifested by the poor people themselves.

“My lord, you have a harder battle to fight than you imagine. The farmers prefer human machines to work for them, to rational thinking men and women. They tell me it is none of your business to instruct the poor. God made them so, and it is better for you to leave them as you find them. They don’t want their servants to know as much as they do themselves.”

“They prefer slaves to freemen,” suggested Lord Wilton. “It is strange how deeply that accursed system is implanted in the human heart. We need not go to the West Indies, or to the slave states of America, to see how it degrades the mind, and reduces man to the level of the brute. I hope the day is not far distant when both countries will abolish for ever this disgraceful traffic.”

“It will not be in our day,” said Mrs. Martin, who, in spite of her many cares, possessed a considerable degree of humour, “without we should attain to the age of Methuselah.”

“God forbid. I do not covet length of days,” returned Lord Wilton, “but I do hope to see that accomplished in my day, and during this generation. But I am rambling from the school altogether. It may be necessary for you to have an assistant to help you, and take charge of the younger classes. There was a nice amiable young girl here a few minutes ago, to inquire of me if I could tell whether young Rushmere had been killed in the battle of Corunna. Could you not press her into the service? She called herself Dorothy Chance. Do you know her?”

“Everybody in the parish knows Dorothy Chance, my lord. She is rather a remarkable person. Did you ever hear how she got her odd name?”

“Yes, yes,” cried his lordship impatiently, dreading a repetition of what had occasioned him such intense pain. “It is not of that sad story, but of the girl’s capabilities as a teacher, I want to speak. Can she read and write?”

“Indifferently.”

“My dear Mrs. Martin,” he now spoke with great earnestness, “will you increase my obligations to you, by giving this young girl, this Dorothy Chance, an hour’s instruction daily in the usual branches of English education. She is very intelligent, and will make an excellent assistant, if properly trained for the work.”

“I respect Dorothy, and will do so with the greatest pleasure. When shall her schooling commence?”

“Directly you can make the necessary arrangements. You shall not be the loser, Mrs. Martin, by the attention you may pay to this poor orphan girl. I cannot think of her strange history without emotion.”

“Lord Wilton is an angel of goodness,” thought Mrs. Martin, “the most benevolent of men. It is seldom we meet with such in this hard world. Dorothy Chance has lived in the parish from a baby, but who among her neighbours ever thought of doing her a real service, uninfluenced by interested motives?”

Lord Wilton had made two people supremely happy that morning. Dorothy had left his presence grateful for the kind sympathy he had expressed in her welfare, and confident that he would perform his promise in reference to Gilbert Rushmere; and Mrs. Martin felt the heavy load of poverty, that was crushing her to the earth, suddenly removed. Visions of peace and plenty, of warm clothing and sufficient food for her family, cheered and elevated her heart. When once alone in the park, she returned thanks to the Almighty for his goodness.

“It is not in man,” she cried, “to do acts of kindness and generosity like this. It is of God, from whom all goodness, directly, or indirectly, flows, who has influenced the mind of this noble gentleman to help us in our present distress.”

The school project that had filled her with such dismay, now appeared in the light of a blessing. She was glad that Dorothy had been selected for her assistant. She knew the kindly disposition of the girl, who had often left a roll of nice fresh butter, or a cream cheese, at her humble dwelling, as a small token of her respect; and she had often wished she had the power to show her some small favour in return, for her offerings of love.

At the park gates she overtook Dorothy, who had sauntered leisurely homewards, recalling to memory every word that had passed between her and Lord Wilton. Marvelling at the grandeur of the Hall, and still more at the gracious reception he had given her—

“Mrs. Martin,” she said, when that lady joined her, “is not Lord Wilton a kind good man? I feel as if I could love him with my whole heart. I felt so afraid of him before I saw him—and he treated me as politely as if I had been a lady. How can people call him proud and cold? I shall never think of him without coupling his name with a blessing.”

“He deserves it, Dorothy. He has made me very happy. He has promised to give me a hundred a year for superintending his school. A hundred a year—think of that. It appears quite a fabulous sum to me. It will double our income. And do you know, Dorothy, he wants you to be my assistant?”

“But,” and Dorothy stopped suddenly, “I am not qualified for undertaking such an important situation. My knowledge is so limited, it would be the blind leading the blind. I can read a chapter to father in the Bible, but the hard names sadly puzzle me. I write a poor cramped hand, which I can hardly make out myself, and know very little about figures. I can cast up little sums in my own head better than I can on paper. It has always been the cherished wish of my heart to get a little more education.

“There are a heap of old books in a closet at the Farm, upon which I cast a longing eye, but they are all Greek and Hebrew to me. You know, dear Mrs. Martin, how I am situated. I have all the work of the house upon my hands; and when night comes, I am so tired and sleepy, that I am glad to go to bed; and father, at any rate, would not allow me to set up, and waste the candles in reading.”

“You must persuade the old people to hire a girl to help you, Dorothy. They can well afford it. Lord Wilton wishes me to instruct you, and it is too good a chance,” she continued, laughing, “to let slip through your fingers. If you do not like to speak to them on the subject, I will. I shall feel only too happy to teach you, Dorothy, and Henry will add his valuable instructions to mine. I feel quite excited by the good news I have to tell him,” she said, forgetting Dorothy, and once more reverting to her own affairs. “I left him in such low spirits this morning. We had not money to buy a loaf for breakfast, the children were hungry and discontented with only potatoes, and it was difficult to pacify them. I walked up to the Hall with such a heavy heart—but you see, Dorothy, how sinful it was to doubt the mercy of the Heavenly Father, who has almost miraculously supplied the daily bread my poor husband prayed for so earnestly this morning, and which my good Henry felt so certain would be provided to meet our wants.”

Dorothy’s eyes were overflowing. As to Mrs. Martin, she sobbed aloud.

The two women walked together in silence until they had crossed the heath. Their path here separated, Mrs. Martin following the downward course of the sandy lane, and Dorothy climbing the hill. They shook hands warmly as they parted, the curate’s wife promising to call at the Farm next day, and have a talk with the old folks.

“Poor thing,” sighed Dorothy, looking after her, “we have our cares, but we never know what it is to lack an abundant supply of wholesome food. Now here is a lady, well educated and delicately nurtured, who is destitute of the common necessaries of life. This ought to be a lesson to me, to be contented with my lot.”

Dorothy did not feel quite satisfied with herself on this point. She struggled hard to suppress a regretful sense of inferiority—a growing disgust and aversion to her laborious life, which had stolen into her mind since she had seen the interior of that lordly mansion, and beheld the beautiful works of art it contained; the taste and elegance displayed in the costly furniture, and the luxurious comfort which reigned everywhere.

She looked down upon her coarse garments and sunburnt hands, and contrasted them painfully with the regal beauty and costly apparel of the titled lady whose portrait she so strangely resembled.

Why should the mere accident of birth, which neither could command, make such a startling difference? It was a mystery Dorothy could not comprehend? It seemed to her unjust—that made of the same flesh and blood, their situations should be so widely dissimilar, their lives lie so far apart. Then the words of the wise St. Paul came in to comfort her—“One star differeth from another star in glory,”—and she was terrified at the presumption that dared to question the wisdom and justice of the great Sovereign of the universe.

“Still, it would be so pleasant to be a lady,” thought Dorothy, “to have leisure to acquire knowledge. To be able to read all those splendid books I saw in my lord’s library. To examine, whenever I liked, those beautiful pictures, to play on that golden harp that stood in the corner near one of the large windows, and to live surrounded by such magnificence—never to be obliged to work in the fields, exposed to a hot sun, or to be addressed familiarly by rude vulgar people, who consider that they have a right to command your services.”

Poor Dorothy had unwittingly gathered that morning the fruit of the forbidden tree, and found the knowledge it imparted very bitter and indigestible.

“This is downright wickedness!” she cried at last. “I am a foolish ungrateful creature, to try and measure the wide gulf that lies between the rich and educated, and the poor and ignorant by my feeble intellect. God has apportioned to each their lot; and why should I feel envious and discontented, that the best lot did not fall to my share?

“What do I know of the joys and sorrows of these great people? I do not see the poisonous serpent lurking among the flowers in their gay gardens, or the shadows that may darken the glory of their day. Lord Wilton’s rank does not exempt him from care. His handsome face is full of trouble and anxiety. Tears were in his eyes when he mentioned his son. He felt just as uneasy about him, as father does about Gilbert. A lord, after all, is but a man.”

Having arrived at this conclusion, the cloud passed from Dorothy’s bright face, her step grew lighter, and nature again smiled upon her like a divine picture, fresh from the hands of the Creator.

She found dinner over at the farm-house, and the old people growing uneasy at her absence.

“Where ha’ ye been, Dorothy, lass?” asked Mr. Rushmere, in no gentle tone. “The red cow ha’ calved, an’ no one here to see ‘un, an’ mother had to carry her a hot mash hersel’.”

“I am sorry and glad,” returned Dorothy, throwing her hat and shawl upon the table. “Sorry, that dear mother had to go out in the cold, and glad that old Cherry has got a calf. Is it a pretty one?”

“A real fine heifer,” said Mrs. Rushmere. “It’s a mortal pity it came so early in the winter. I fear we can never rear it—an’ the mother such a splendid cow, an’ comes o’ such a good stock.”

“Don’t be afraid, I mean to try,” cried Dorothy, laughing. “You remember Ruby, what a fine beast he made, and father sold him for twenty pounds. He was a January calf.”

“Please yoursel’, Dorothy. But, bless me, child, where ha’ ye been all the while? I sought for you in the house and byre, and began to think you had left us altogether.”

“I have been up to the Hall.”

There was a slight elation in Dorothy’s voice, and her eyes sparkled in anticipation of the surprise that she well knew her answer would call forth.

“The Hall! What did a’ want at the Hall, Dorothy?” asked Rushmere, taking the pipe from his mouth, while a dark cloud descended on his brow. “Never dare to go to the Hall again without my leave.”

“It was on your account I went, father,” said Dorothy, turning pale and looking very much frightened, at the very different manner to that which she expected, in which her announcement had been received. “I went because I thought Lord Wilton could tell us something about Gilbert.”

“And did you see my lord?” asked Mrs. Rushmere, with a look of intense curiosity mingled with awe upon her simple face.

“My lord,” said Rushmere, with an ironical smile, contemptuously repeating his wife’s words. “Surely he be no lord o’ thine.”

“Lawrence, you always do speak so disrespectful of Lord Wilton. It does not become poor folk like us to despise our betters.”

“I owe him no favour, wife. I want no favours from him. It vexes me that the lass went to him on my affairs. As to his being better than me, I ha’ still to learn that. My name is as good as his—in what do we differ? In the wealth, which by right belongs to me, of which a rascally king robbed my brave ancestors to reward his unprincipled favourite. It grieves my heart that a son of mine should be a servant to his son—an’ that girl must bring me still lower, by reminding Lord Wilton of the degradation.”

When the blood of the old man waxed warm, and he felt wrathy, he forgot half his provincialisms, and spoke and looked more like a gentleman. His wife felt little sympathy in her good man’s anger, still less in his pride, which she was wont, behind his back, to speak of as perfectly ridiculous.

“Dorothy,” she whispered, “what did my lord say about Gilbert?”

“He promised to write to Lord Fitzmorris, and obtain all the information he could respecting him. Oh, mother,” she added, in a low voice, “he was so kind.”

“But were you not afraid of speaking to a lord. I never spoke to a lord in my life. Lawrence is listening to what I am saying. Come upstairs, Dorothy, an’ tell me all about it.”

Dorothy was not sorry to escape from the storm that was lowering upon the yeoman’s brow, to pour into Mrs. Rushmere’s attentive ear all that she had seen and heard at the Hall.

She dwelt at great length upon the generous offer made by Lord Wilton, through Mrs. Martin, to give her a good education, and fit her for an assistant in his school.

“Mr. Rushmere will never give his consent to that, Dorothy. It will anger him more than your going to the Hall,” said Mrs. Rushmere, shaking her head. “If the proposal comes from Mrs. Martin, an’ she does not go to contradict any of his notions, he may, perhaps, listen to her, for he thinks her a good woman, an’ her husband an excellent preacher, though little he profits by the parson’s sermons, I must say that.”

“It would not be just to Lord Wilton not to give him the credit due to his generosity.”

“I am sure he would prefer it, Dorothy. I don’t think he likes to make his charities public. If you are a wise child, you will keep his share in the business a profound secret. Were it known, it would set all the ill-natured tongues in the parish at work. Such women as Letty Barford and Nancy Watling would neither spare you nor your noble patron.”

Dorothy thought over the matter for a few minutes. She had had a bitter experience of what Mrs. Grundy could say, and felt a wholesome dread of that slanderous individual.

“You are right, dear mother, as you generally are. I will not mention the subject to father, or any one else. Let him and Mrs. Martin fight it out. She is such a sensible woman, she is very likely to get the better of his prejudices; and I know him so well, that he would rather yield to a stranger than to us.”

Mrs. Rushmere laughed heartily.

“Aye, Dolly, he would call that our attempting to wear his breeches. Good lack! I never tried to put them on in my life, but he’ll come fussing about my work, perking into pots and pans, and hunting up dust in odd corners, but I durst not tell him that he has put on my petticoats, which would be only fair, an’ just as true as t’other thing.”

CHAPTER XI.

A DISCUSSION.

Mrs. Martin had not named the hour she had promised to call at the Farm. Dorothy, however, kept a good look out for her new friend, while pursuing her domestic avocations, and when she saw her coming down the lane she ran to meet her.

After discussing for some time the school matter, and her probable chance of success, Mrs. Martin thought she could prevail upon Mr. Rushmere to let Dorothy attend an evening school, for an hour, three times during the week, without making any mystery about it.

She was not aware, as Dorothy was, of the stubborn obstinacy of his character, which, combined with old hereditary prejudices, made him a very difficult person to deal with.

She found the yeoman in the big hall, putting in rake handles, to be ready against they were wanted, for the day was cold and rough without, and the old man was one who always made a boast of taking time by the forelock.

He would have made a fine study for the pencil of Wilkie or Gainsborough. His regular but strongly marked features, reflecting the energy with which he pursued his employment; his cheeks ruddy with exertion; and his snow-white hair falling in long wavy curls upon his ample shoulders.

Pincher was sitting erect upon his haunches beside him, dividing his attention between his master and watching the progress he made in his work; and the frisking of Dolly’s kitten, Rory, who was playing with the tail of his demure-looking mother, who lay sleeping upon the hearth.

“Always busy, neighbour Rushmere,” said Mrs. Martin, stepping briskly up to the old man. “It would be a wonder to find you napping.”

“Aye, ma’am, lazy folk are no good,” he replied, looking up and shaking hands with her. “What brings you out this cold day? It’s not weather for women folk. Some money, I suppose, to be collected for the church. Parsons are capital at that work. When they can’t come themselves, they send their wives.”

“They know how difficult it is for an Englishman to say nay to a woman,” and Mrs. Martin rubbed her cold hands and laughed.

“You are just right, ma’am, I never could resist their sweet voices—not I. From youth to age I have allers found women my best friends. God bless ‘em. But let us come to the point at once. What do you want o’ me? What am I expected to disburse?”

“Neither silver nor gold this time.”

“Well, now, that’s something uncommon. Surely you never came out this wintry day for the pleasure o’ seeing an old man at work.” He looked at her with a shrewd twinkle in his clear blue eyes, as if he suspected that her visit was not wholly disinterested.

“I want you to allow Dorothy Chance to assist me in teaching in the Sunday-school, which is to go into operation in a few weeks. Her industrious habits and good character, which is well-known to the parish, eminently qualify her for instructing the young people of her own class. Will you permit her to take a share in the good work?”

“No, a’ will not,” said the old man, a frown gathering upon his broad forehead; and he applied the spoke-shave with great vigour to the rake-handle in his grasp.

“Who is to do her work at home, while she is drumming the A B C into the heads of children, whom God never meant to know B from a bull’s foot. If you want money, I’ll gi’ that, but not the time o’ my servant, that’s more nor money’s worth to me.”

Dorothy, who was standing on the hearth, from which she had been diligently sweeping the pile of shavings the farmer had scattered over it, winced at this. It was the first time she had ever heard the name of servant applied to her, by her foster parents. She thought it unkind and cruel, and her dark eyes flashed with a sudden fire, that dried up the gathering tears.

Mrs. Martin, however, nothing daunted by this rebuff, and beginning to understand something of the character of the man with whom she had to deal, replied with the greatest coolness.

“I spoke to you, Mr. Rushmere as Dorothy’s father, not as her master. I thought that her welfare was as dear to you as that of your own child; and if report says true, she has been a good dutiful daughter to you.”

“Yes, I ha’ naught to complain of on that score.” This was said with a dogged air of sullen resistance.

“Well, then, my friend, you surely will not deny her the privilege of joining in a Christian duty, and deprive her of the advantage of improving her scanty education. Such a course would be injurious to her, and would reflect no credit on you.”

“I don’t allow a parson’s wife to preach to me about my duty, or to interfere wi’ my family matters,” said Rushmere, dryly. “Politics and religion are subjects which belong o’ right to men; women allers make a mess o’ it, when they meddle wi’ what they don’t understand.”

Mrs. Martin, amused with the vehemence with which the old man spoke out his mind, replied, with a smile.

“You will allow, however, Mr. Rushmere, that women have souls to be saved as well as men, and that a little education is necessary for them, to enable them to teach their own children. The religious instruction which a boy receives at his mother’s knee, generally clings to him through life; and often is the silent monitor restraining him from the commission of great crimes in after years, when the most eloquent preaching from the pulpit has produced little moral change in his character. To teach poor ignorant children to read the Bible, to learn their duty to God and man, and to be contented with the state of life in which His good providence has placed them, is surely to confer upon them a great benefit. I have visited dying people in this parish, who barely knew their right hand from their left, who had never been taught to pray, and lived without a knowledge of Christ or of God, in the world. Now, it is not our intention to make scholars of such poor people, but to teach them how to become good Christians.”

“That sounds sensible like,” mused the farmer. “You’re a clever woman, Mrs. Martin. Aye, a cleverer woman than I thought you. But Dorothy wants instruction in such matters herself. How can she teach others?”

“I am willing and anxious to fit her for this task. Let her come to me for an hour—only one short hour—three times during the week, and I will spare no pains to improve her education, and make her an excellent teacher.”

“Very kind o’ you, ma’am, but who’s to milk the cows, and attend to the house, while she’s away?”

“Father, I promise you, faithfully, that nothing shall be neglected,” cried Dorothy, eagerly, who saw, by the subdued anger in his face, that he was relenting. “I will rise an hour earlier, and will not study my lessons until the evening, when my work is all done.”

“Well,” said Rushmere, slowly conceding the point. “I will gi’ my permission only on one condition, and that is, Mrs. Martin, that you teach the lass no fine airs, no apeing of rich ladies, no wish to dress smarter, nor hold her head higher than her neighbours; nor to think herself better an’ wiser than those who ha’ been at the expense o’ rearing her. When once a gal takes such notions into her head, she’s good for naught. As to making our Dolly a Christian, I think she be that already.

“And now, Mrs. Martin,” he continued, with increasing energy, and handling his rake in a most warlike manner, “that you ha’ had your say, and got your own way, which I ‘spose you be used to with the goodman at home, will you tell me who’s to be at the expense of this school—school?” repeating his own words with a sarcastic laugh. “What time ha’ poor folk for learning, who ha’ to work fourteen hours out o’ the twenty-four, to earn bread for themselves and their children?”

“I will tell you all about our plans the next time I come to see you,” said Mrs. Martin, who perceived she was treading upon dangerous ground, and was very well satisfied with her present position. “I hope, Lawrence Rushmere, you will become one of the best patrons of our institution.”

“Dorothy,” turning to that individual, who was now beaming with smiles, her face all good humour and sunshine, “I shall expect you on Monday evening.”

“Ah, dear Mrs. Martin, Monday is our washing day. Will not Tuesday do as well?”

“Yes, perhaps better. Monday is always a busy day in all working communities. We will say Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Will that suit you?”

“Perfectly.”

Mrs. Martin went away delighted with the success of her negotiations, and so that matter was settled; though Rushmere, after the departure of his visitor, grumbled terribly at his want of resolution, in not sticking like a man to his first determination, and was very cross and contradictory to Dorothy and his wife during the rest of the day.

Dorothy bore it all with exemplary patience, and resumed her work in such spirits, that she sang from the very joy of her heart. And such a voice as the little damsel had, it only wanted cultivation to have made her a fortune. Dorothy was not conscious of its surpassing excellence and power, though Rushmere often remarked to his wife, “that it was better than the best of music. It did his old heart good to hear the girl sing. She sang like a trush, and made him feel like a boy again.”

In the lives of most individuals, whether brought up in the seclusion of the country, or amid the turmoil of a great city, there is a turning point, whether for good or ill, that determines their future position, and either makes or mars their worldly prospects. A certain “tide,” as a great writer has expressed it, “which, taken at the flood, will lead to fortune.”

This period had arrived in the hitherto obscure life of Dorothy Chance, and without speculating at all on the probable result of the change that a few days had made in her position, she embraced it with the ardour peculiar to her character, in which strength of mind and a gentle loving nature were blended most harmoniously together.

Her visit to Heath Hall had kindled in her breast vague yearnings for mental improvement. She had never felt any pleasure in vulgar companionship, and always kept aloof from coarse scenes and unrefined amusements.

Her very language differed from the common dialect of those by whom she was surrounded, and well-educated people marvelled at the grace and simplicity with which she expressed herself.

She had lived out of the world, a pure and useful life; her mind deeply imbued with the poetry of nature—in fact, nature had been her only teacher. Of books she knew little. The Bible, and a book of old ballads, and some odd volumes of the “Spectator,” comprised her literary lore; but she was never tired of poring over these—they afforded the only recreation of the few spare moments she could call her own, and their diligent perusal had doubtless contributed, in no small degree, to the improvement in her mind and manners.

Beauty itself confers a certain air of dignity upon its humblest possessor. Numbers of women, thus richly endowed by nature, when called from a subordinate position to fill a higher station, have done so, with as much ease and grace, as if it had been inherited from birth.

The most delightful trait in Dorothy’s character was its perfect unselfishness; and what is still more rare, a deep and abiding sense of gratitude to the friends who had protected her childhood, and saved her from being brought up in the workhouse. This devotion had been expressed in every act of her life, and had induced her to give up the first love of a warm, truthful heart.

Rushmere, though an honest, good man in his way, was incapable of appreciating a sacrifice which few would have made under the same circumstances. In a momentary impulse of generous feeling he had adopted Dorothy, but even then, he had in view the services she might in future render to his household.

Having no daughter of his own, the beautiful little girl, and her winning ways, had grown into his cold, stern heart, and forced him to regard her with affection against his will. The idea of her becoming his son’s wife, however, he rejected with contempt, and though in another fit of sudden benevolence, when the girl, by her courage and prudence, had saved his life and property, he had given his consent to their marriage, it was not without a settled conviction in his own mind, that Gilbert, if living, no longer wished to claim her as such.

Pride, and the love of money, were the old man’s besetting sins. He had toiled hard all his life, in accumulating the one, and had hoped that his son, by a fortunate marriage, might be the means of gratifying the other; and he viewed this sudden advancement in Dorothy’s prospects with a jealous eye, as a not improbable means of drawing her and Gilbert once more together.

Dorothy herself never had the least misgiving in her mind with regard to her lover’s fidelity—they were, indeed, parted, but, in her estimation, not divided.

How could Gilbert cease to love her, when her soul was devoted to him; and had not the old man at last given his consent; and did not she long to tell him that, and make him happy with the unexpected consummation of their treasured hope?

Dorothy was very ignorant of Gilbert’s real character. She had yet to learn that his mind was a reflex of his father’s; that the same deep-rooted obstinacy formed the base of her lover’s character. With a larger share of vanity, he also felt a deeper share of personal injury. His animosity once aroused, was a demon very hard to quell.

Rushmere was often hasty and contrary, and pugnacious as a bull-dog, but at the same time, steady in his affections, and if unresisted in his angry moods, he came round of himself, often expressing the deepest regret for harsh or unreasonable conduct.

He was honest and truthful, and a just master to his servants; and Dolly loved and venerated the old man, for the sterling good qualities he possessed, and willingly forgave all the faults, often remarking, when her mother had been vexed by some blunt, fault-finding speech from her stern husband,

“Don’t think of it, mother, you will always find some thistles among the finest corn. Father will forget it all before night.”

This was true. Rushmere did not treasure his wrath, but his son Gilbert did.

The refusal Dorothy gave him to his father’s face, was rankling still in his heart. When he left his home, it was not with any desire to spite his parents, especially his mother, to whom he was much attached, but out of revenge to Dorothy; for he well knew that in her heart he could not inflict a deeper wound.

Mentally and morally, Gilbert Rushmere was quite unworthy of her love. Dorothy was so blind to this fact, that her great wish for educational improvement was in the hope that it might render her more deserving of his regard.

Her sensitive nature had been deeply hurt that morning, by the rough, unfeeling manner in which Mr. Rushmere had called her his servant. She tried her best to forget it, but the ungracious thought would again and again intrude.

“He might have spoken of me as his daughter, as he always calls me when we are alone. It was hard to degrade me in my own eyes before Mrs. Martin,” argued poor Dorothy. “I am not a servant. I receive no wages—ask for none. Their love I consider is sufficient reward. Perhaps it is my ignorance that makes father so averse to my marriage with Gilbert; but then,” she continued, musingly, “if that were the case, he would not be so much against my receiving instruction. I do not believe that he really wishes us to come together, and it was cruel of Gilly to write of me in that careless manner, as if it were a matter of indifference to him my marriage with another.

“However, I mean to study in real earnest, to give my whole mind to it, and acquire all the knowledge I can. I feel a power within me, that has never been called into action. A something that is always waking up, and urging me to work out my own living, instead of depending on the charity of others. I have always tried to silence this voice—it seemed ungrateful in me to listen to it, but to-day it speaks to me in louder tones, urging me to lead a holy and useful life, and I now know,” she cried, earnestly clasping her hands together, “that it is from God.”

With this conviction, deeply impressed upon her mind, Dorothy commenced her studies with Mrs. Martin, who had conceived a deep attachment to her young pupil.

They got on swimmingly together. Dorothy’s cheerful, hopeful temper and great patience, with the addition of an excellent memory, made the task of tuition light and agreeable to her friend, while the progress she made astonished her worthy preceptress, as much as it did Dorothy herself.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME

VOLUME II.

CHAPTER I.

THE MARTINS.

The cottage, in which the Martins resided, was a quaint-looking white-washed tenement, which opened into the burying-ground of the small Gothic church, within whose walls the prayers of many generations had been offered up. It stood in an isolated position, on the other side of the heath, and was approached by the same deep sandy lane, which ran in front of the farm, and round the base of the hill, commanding a fine view of the sea.

A few old elms skirted the moss-covered stone-wall that surrounded the churchyard, adding much picturesque beauty to the lonely spot, casting their fantastic shadows in sunlight and moonlight upon the long rows of nameless graves that clustered beneath them. These grassy tenements, so green and quiet, looked the abodes of perfect peace, a fitting resting place, after the turmoil of this sorrowful life, to the “rude forefathers” of the little hamlet, which consisted of a few thatched mud cottages, that clustered round the church, and formed a straggling street,—the public-house in the centre, a building of more recent date, being the most conspicuous dwelling in the place.

This was the evening resort of all the idlers in the neighbourhood; and standing near the coast, and only two miles distant from a large sea-port town, was much frequented by sailors and smugglers, who resorted thither to drink and gamble, and hear Jonathan Sly, the proprietor, read the weekly paper, and all the news of the war. Dorothy, in her walks to and from the parsonage, generally avoided the public thoroughfare, and turned off through a pathway field, which led to the back of the house, having several times encountered a gang of half-drunken sailors, and been terrified by their rude gaze, and still more unwelcome expressions of admiration.

Dearly Dorothy loved the old church, in which she had listened with reverence, from a child, to the word of God.

Her mother had found her last resting-place beneath the sombre shadow of an old yew tree, that fronted the chancel window.

No sunbeam ever penetrated the dark, closely interwoven branches. No violet opened its blue eyes amid the long grass and nettles that crowned that nameless heap of “gathered dust.”

Dorothy had often cleared away the weeds, and planted flowers upon the spot. They drank in the poisonous exhalations of the melancholy tree, and withered and died.

She tried rose bushes, but those flowers of love and light shared the same fate. The dank prophetic-looking yew frowned them into death.

Dorothy regarded all these failures with a superstitious awe, and glanced at that lonely grave, from a distance, with baited breath, and a strange chill at her heart.

That giant tree, the child of past centuries, that stood watching over it like a grim sentinel, seemed to her simple mind like an embodiment of evil. It had no grace, no beauty in her eyes; she had even sacrilegiously wished it levelled to the earth. It kept the sun from shining on her mother’s grave; the robin and linnet never warbled their sweet hymns from among its heavy foliage. It had been planted by some one in the very despair of grief, and the ghost of sorrow hovered under its gloomy canopy.

In spite of this morbid feeling, a strange sympathy with the unknown parent often drew Dorothy to the spot. A visit to the churchyard had been a favourite evening ramble with her and her lover, and, when tired of their seat on the low stone wall, they wandered hand in hand down to the sea-shore, to watch the passing sails, and to bathe their feet in the glad blue waters. Even in the churchyard, love, not divinity, formed the theme of their conversation; the presence of the dead failing to repress the hopes and joys of their young gushing life.

In her walks to the parsonage, Dorothy felt a pensive delight in recalling every circumstance that had happened in these summer evening walks with Gilbert Rushmere. They were of little moment at the time, scarcely regarded; but absence had invested them with a twofold interest.

First love stamps upon the memory of youth its undying image; and from trifles light as the thistle’s down can erect for itself a monument more durable than granite.

What a halo of beauty it casts over the scenes in which its first sight was breathed, its first vows fondly whispered, making the desert and solitary places to blossom as the rose.

Even those bleak salt marshes bordering the sea, over which the sea-gull flapped her heavy grey wings, and which resounded to the pewitt’s melancholy monotonous cry, possessed a charm for Dorothy.

From those marshes Gilbert and Dorothy drove up the cows to be milked.

On the banks of that sluggish river that lay like a dead thing between its slimy mud banks until filled by the tide, in which few persons could discover anything to interest the imagination, the twain, when boy and girl, used to fish for crabs with a small hooped net, after the tide had retired.

Those were happy times, full of sport and glee. How they used to laugh and clap their hands, when the ugly spider-like creatures tumbled into the trap, and fought and quarrelled over the bait that had lured them to destruction.

The old haunts, the well-remembered objects, however repulsive to the eye of taste, were dear to Dorothy; they brought her lover nearer, and she forgot the long stretch of sea and land that divided them.

She never imagined that absence and the entire change that had taken place in his mode of life could make any alteration in his views and feelings with regard to herself; that it was possible that days and even months could elapse without his casting one thought on her.

Fortunately for Dorothy, she had so much to employ her hands during the day, in order to get leisure to study in the evening, that it was only during these solitary walks that she could live in the past and build castles for the future. Mr. Martin, the good curate, had welcomed his wife’s young pupil with parental kindness, and soon felt a deep interest in her.

He was a slight feeble looking man, with a large head and still larger heart. No sour gloomy fanatic, hiding disappointed ambition under the mask of religion: but a cheerful, earnest Christian practically illustrating his glorious faith, by making it the rule of life, both in public and private.

His religious impressions had been formed at a very early period by a pious parent, and he was an only child. Early deprived of a father’s care, the good providence of God had watched over the widow and her son, uniting them by that most holy of all ties, the love of Jesus.

Before his mother was removed by death, she had the joy of beholding Henry actively employed in the Divine Master’s service; and she expired in his arms, earnestly requesting him to hold fast his faith, and to meet her in heaven.

He had promised, with God’s help, to do this, and had struggled manfully with overwhelming difficulties to obey that solemn injunction.

He had married in early manhood a woman he loved, without any reference to worldly prudence; and though much physical suffering had resulted from being poorly paid, and having to support a rapidly increasing family on very inadequate means, Henry Martin was never heard to repine. He was poor, but really a happy man. The cruse of oil and barrel of meal, though often nearly exhausted, had still been supplied; and the children, though meanly clad, and nourished on the most homely fare, were healthy, loving and full of promise.

The good curate declared with a full and grateful heart, that his cup overflowed with undeserved blessings. He lived within his humble means and was satisfied. But sickness came, and took from him a noble dutiful boy, the very pride of his eyes and the delight of his heart; and doctors’ bills and funeral expenses had curtailed their means; and the morning that Mrs. Martin paid her visit to the Hall was the first that had ever seen the worthy man and his family reduced to plain bread.

When Mrs. Martin communicated the unpleasant fact, he received it with his usual trust in the providence of God. “We shall not be deserted, Rosina; the Heavenly Father will give us daily bread. Have faith in God.”

With a heavy heart, the poor wife had set off on her visit to the Hall, determined to ask the assistance of Lord Wilton in behalf of her husband. In this she was prevented, by the munificence of the noble gentleman. On her return, she flung herself upon the breast of her more trusting partner, and communicated the happy intelligence; weeping in the very joy of her heart, while she informed him of the better prospects in store for them.

“Restrain these transports, my dear Rosina,” he said, as he folded the poor weeper to his kind heart, “or bring them as a thank offering to the good God, who has so miraculously saved us from want. Let us kneel down together, and while we return our sincere thanks for his great mercy, let us beseech him to keep us humble in prosperity, lest this reverse of fortune should render us proud and forgetful of our duty.”

Dorothy soon found herself quite at home with the good pastor and his amiable family. Dearly she loved the little ones. Her solitary life had given her few opportunities of cultivating the acquaintance of children, or of drawing out their affections. To her simple womanly heart, nursing the baby was a luxury, a romp with the older children, a charming recreation, a refreshment both to soul and body, after the severer labours of the day.

When her evening lessons were concluded, the little flock would gather round her knees, by the red firelight, to hear her sing in her melodious voice, the ballads of “Chevy Chase,” and “Lord Thomas and Fair Ellen,” or tell the story of “Hans in Luck,” or the less practical fairy tale of the White Cat.

Harry, the eldest, a very sensible boy of nine years, greatly admired the ballad lore, but was quite sceptical as to the adventures of the cat princess.

“I don’t believe a word of it, Dolly,” he said. “I never heard a cat speak. My cat is nearly white, but she never says anything but mew. I like the story of Hans, it sounds more like truth, for I think, I should have been just as foolish, and made no better bargains than he did.”

“Oh,” cried little Johnnie, “I love the story of the dear Babes in the Wood, only it makes me feel so cold, when they lie down and die in each other’s arms, in that big and lonely wood. Do tell it again, Dolly dear,” putting his white arms around her neck, and kissing her, “I will not cry this time.”

Harry was quite a genius in arithmetic, and had asked his father, as a great favour, that he might instruct Dorothy in that most difficult of all sciences to one possessing a poetical temperament.

“Now, Dolly, you must get the pence table by heart, I found it harder to learn than all the others. As to the multiplication table, that Rosey calls so difficult, and is always blundering at, that’s mere play,” and he snapped his fingers. “But this about the pound, shillings, and pence is very hard.”

“Oh no, Harry, that is the easiest of all,” said Dorothy, laughing. “I have been used to add up money ever since I was a little child. Ask me what so many pounds of butter, at such a price, any price you like to name, comes to; and I think I can tell you correctly without table or book.”

“But who taught you, Dorothy?” asked the wondering boy, after having received correct replies, to what he considered, puzzling questions.

“Necessity and experience,” quoth Dorothy, “but I made a great many mistakes before I got into their method of teaching, and was sure that I was right.”

“Your mental arithmetic, Dorothy,” said Mr. Martin, looking up from his book, greatly amused by the controversy, “in its practical results is quite as useful, or more so than Harry’s. It serves the purposes of every day life, which seldom involves great speculations.”

“Ah, but,” said Dorothy, “my lessons cost me no little trouble. Father scolded, and sometimes whipped me, when I did not make the money come right, and I had to look sharp after it the next time; so you see I was not so clever as you think me.”

“Everything that is worth having must be obtained with labour,” said Mr. Martin. “God has wisely ordered it so, not only in worldly matters, but in the more important affairs of the soul. Saving faith never comes to any one, without diligently seeking for it, earnestly praying for it, and making it the first great object of life; and even then it will remain a dead letter, without it reforms the character; and influences all our dealings with our fellow-men. The sincerity of our faith lies in deeds, not in words; for when we act as Christians, God works with us, and proves the genuineness of our profession, by the fruit which it brings forth.”

“Ah,” said Dorothy, with a half-regretful sigh. “How I wish that I were indeed a Christian.”

“May God confirm that wish, my dear child, and in so doing, confer upon you the greatest blessing that he can impart to man.”

During the winter months, the Sunday-school was held in the curate’s kitchen, a large room, able to accommodate forty or fifty pupils. For some weeks the attendance was very small, and gave little encouragement to the teachers.

In vain Mr. Martin addressed his congregation from the pulpit, and urged upon them the importance of sending their children to be instructed; the wealthier farmers disapproved of the movement, and the poor men in their employ were too much afraid of being thrown out of work, by giving them offence, to yield to his earnest pleading. His exhortations fell to the ground unheeded; the children of the men employed at the Hall farm alone complied with his urgent request.

Mrs. Martin at length determined to take Dorothy with her, and visit every cottage in the parish, and see how far they could prevail with the mothers to allow their little ones to come once a week for instruction.

They found everywhere great unwillingness, and abundant excuses.

One woman, when urged to send a fine girl and boy to be taught, replied very sulkily,

“Bill has to keep farmer Pipers’ ‘oggs on Sundays—‘oggs can’t keep theirselves.”

“But the girl,” suggested Mrs. Martin.

“Is it my Sally you want!” quickly replied the sturdy dame; leaning her head on the top of the broomstick, with which she was sweeping the house; and looking defiantly at the questioners. “She has to take care o’ the babby.”

“Cannot you take care of it, for an hour, after church is over, Mrs. Carter, while Sally attends the school?”

“No I can’t,” screamed the woman, at the top of her shrill voice, “and don’t mean to try. Sunday’s the only day I’ve got, that I can call my own, an’ I go to see the neighbours, an’ to hear the news. Yer should be satisfied, Mrs. Martin, marm, that I go to hear yer husband preach once a day, without wanting to take away the children, an’ spoil em for work, wi’ yer book larnin’ an’ nonsense. So good day to you,” and the coarse vixen flung the door in the lady’s face, and indulged within her own castle in a hearty fit of laughter.

“This is not very encouraging, Dorothy,” said Mrs. Martin. “Lord Wilton will find more difficulty in establishing his school than he anticipates. It is hard to deal with these ignorant people; but their rudeness must not discourage us from the performance of our duty.”

“If Mr. Martin will give out, after service to-morrow,” said Dorothy, “that he will instruct all the children who like to come from the next parish, I think we should soon get plenty of scholars.”

“You would provoke them to jealousy.”

“Yes, and it will be sure to succeed. That woman who refused to send her children just now, would let them come, rather than have another woman’s children from Storby enjoy the privilege she refused.”

Dorothy’s suggestion was acted upon. The Storby people were invited to send their children to Lord Wilton’s school. The Hadstone folks were provoked to emulation, and the next Sunday the school room was filled to overflowing, and Dorothy and Mrs. Martin commenced their labours in earnest.

CHAPTER II.

GILBERT’S GOOD FORTUNE.

Lord Wilton had been absent in London for several weeks. The Rushmeres had received no tidings of Gilbert, and the time would have passed drearily enough for Dorothy, but for her lessons and the increasing work at the school.

One bright March morning, Dorothy was alone in the big room at the Farm spinning, and, as usual, pondering over the fate of her absent lover, when her day-dream was disturbed by a sharp rap at the door from the butt end of a riding-whip.

The whirr of the wheel ceased, and Dorothy opened the door. It was Lord Wilton himself, looking thinner and paler than when she had before seen him. He raised his hat with a melancholy smile, as Dorothy stood blushing and awe-struck on the threshold.

“I bring you good news of your lover, Dorothy, and here is a letter from the youth himself to his father, which came enclosed in one I have just received from my son.”

Dorothy’s colour went and came, as she took the letter from the nobleman’s outstretched hand.

“Will your lordship be pleased to alight?”

“Not to-day. My presence would spoil the delight of reading that letter, which you will be sure to do the moment I am out of sight. But I must tell you,” he continued, bending down kindly from his horse, and addressing Dorothy in a most earnest manner, “what, perhaps, Gilbert Rushmere may omit to do in that letter, and which I know will please you all.”

Dorothy raised her lustrous eyes to Lord Wilton’s face, with a look of eager inquiry, as he went on.

“Tell Mr. Rushmere that his son behaved most gallantly in that terrible battle. The –- Regiment was in the very thick of the fight, and suffered tremendously. When my son received the wound that struck him down, young Rushmere bestrode the body, and finally carried it off on his shoulders, under a heavy fire from the enemy. For this noble act he has been promoted to the rank of a sergeant, but his advancement will not end there.

“What, in tears, Dorothy?” he added, in a softer tone, and regarding the young girl with an air of melancholy interest. “I thought my news would make you so happy.”

“So it does—so it does,” sobbed Dorothy. “Oh, my lord, there are tears of joy as well as of sorrow. If I did not cry my heart would burst,” and covering her face with her apron, Dorothy retreated into the house.

“Happy girl,” said Lord Wilton, as she disappeared, “how I envy her this honest burst of natural feeling.”

“How rude Lord Wilton must have thought me,” said Dorothy, when she regained her composure. “Never once to inquire after the health of his wounded son. And he so kind, as to take the trouble of riding up himself to bring us Gilbert’s letter.”

She looked wistfully at the precious document she still held in her hand. “How I wish that father and mother were in. How I long to know all that he has written in the letter.” Here, she kissed it passionately.

“His hand has been just there, when he wrote the direction. What joy to know that he is alive and well—has acted like a brave man, and received a brave man’s reward. God has been very good to us, to cover the dear one’s head in the day of battle.”

The old clock struck twelve. Dorothy hurried to cover the table for dinner.

Rushmere and his man were in the field sowing barley, the boy following with the harrows; her mother absent at the house of a sick neighbour. She knew that dinner must be ready to a minute. Her mind was in such a flutter of excitement, that she found the every day task very difficult to perform.

Every thing seemed to go wrong—the fire would not burn, or the pot boil as quickly as usual, and Dorothy was hot and tired, when Mrs. Rushmere came in.

“You are late, my child,” she said, throwing her bonnet and shawl upon a side table, “hurry with the dinner. Father is washing his hands at the pump, and the men are coming in. You must have been thinking of something besides your work.”

“Oh, mother,” returned Dorothy, as she placed the large round of boiled beef upon the table. “Lord Wilton has been here, and gave me this letter from Gilbert. I have such good news to tell you. It was that that put me into such fluster, that I hardly knew what I was about. Had I not better wait to read the letter until after the men are gone, and father is comfortably smoking his pipe?”

“Yes, certainly. A letter from Gilly! Lord Wilton brought it himself! How kind—how good of his lordship. Quick, Dolly, with the potatoes and dumplings. I will draw the ale. Let us get the dinner over as fast as possible. I feel in such a tremor I shall not be able to eat a morsel.”

Never did a meal seem so long. The men, hungry with their work, ate with a will, and when their appetite began to slacken, they discussed the state of the land they had been seeding, and the probable chances of a good crop.

Dorothy and Mrs. Rushmere could scarcely control their impatience, and thought that they meant to sit at the table for ever. At last they gave over from sheer inability to eat more.

“Well, master,” said Sam Boyden, rising, “you’ll be wi’ us presently?”

“Ay, by the time the horses have had their feed. By God’s blessing, we must finish putting in the crop afore night. It looks for rain, an’ that heavy clay wu’d be too claggy to harrow to-morrow.”

“I ‘spect yer right, master,” and hitching up his nether garments, and lighting his short black pipe, honest Sam and his boy departed.

Without waiting to clear the table, Dorothy drew the letter from her bosom. “From Gilly, father,” and she held it up before the old man, with an air of triumph.

The unlighted pipe dropped from the farmer’s hand.

“The Lord be praised! Then my dear boy is alive. Let us hear what he has to say o’ himsel.’”

Dorothy broke the seal and read as follows:

“My dear father and mother,

“You will be surprised to find that I am in England once more, and have not been to see you. But I have duties to perform that will not allow me to quit my post. You will have read in the papers a full account of the battle of Corunna, and the death of our gallant commander, Sir John Moore. I was one of the soldiers who helped to lay him in his grave. It was a sad sight. We all shed tears. We had not time to make a coffin, we wrapped him up in the glorious flag we had defended with our lives, which was stained with the heart’s blood of as brave a man as ever died fighting for his country.

“I have not time to tell you all our sufferings during our retreat to the coast. The fighting was nothing to the hardships we endured. But, thanks be to God, we are once more in dear old England.

“Our regiment was among the first that charged upon the enemy. I felt a little cowardly, when the order was given for us to advance. I thought of you and mother, and the tears were in my eyes. When we got into the thick of it, and I saw my comrades falling around me, it made a man of me at once. I could have fought the devil.

“In leading his troop to the charge, Lord Fitzmorris was in advance of the men, and got surrounded by the enemy. We rushed to the rescue, and put the rascals to flight, but not before the Captain had fallen from his horse severely wounded. I saw that he was still alive, and carried him to the rear on my shoulders amidst a heavy fire. The men cheered—it was the proudest moment of my life. I nursed him during the voyage home, and he is now out of danger. For this act, which was prompted by the love and esteem I had for him, I was made sergeant, in the place of Tom Johnson, who fell in the battle. He was a fine jolly good-tempered fellow—a great favourite in the regiment. I felt sorry that I was a gainer by the loss of a valuable life. But this is not all. When we arrived in England, I was presented with a lieutenant’s commission, purchased by Lord Wilton, as a reward for the service I had rendered his son. I am now a gentleman—an officer in His Majesty’s service, and have been congratulated on my promotion by all the officers in the regiment. Our colonel himself was the first to shake hands with me, and Lord Fitzmorris introduced me at the mess. I hope you and dear mother will feel proud of your son. It was the best thing I ever did, when I quarrelled with you all and left home. I might have remained all my life a country hawbuck, trudging at the cart tail.

“The folks here make quite a lion of me, and say that I am a handsome dashing fellow. I shall look out for a rich wife by and by, when the war is over, and try to restore the fallen fortunes of the old house. I have a young lady in my eye, to whom I was introduced last night. She will have a fortune of six thousand pounds when her uncle dies. She paid me many compliments, and danced with me several times during the evening.”

A thick mist floated before Dorothy’s eyes. She was seized with an universal tremour, and made a convulsive grasp at the table to keep herself from falling.

“Why do you stop, girl?” cried Rushmere, impatiently, too much engrossed by his own exultant feelings to notice the change that the last few lines had produced on the poor reader.

“Hush, Lawrence,” said Mrs. Rushmere, who saw it all, and hastened to pour out a glass of water for the pale, gasping, heart-stricken creature, “you see she cannot help it.” Then, in her kind, considerate voice, she addressed Dorothy. “Go to your room, my dear child, and compose yourself. I will try and read the rest of the letter to your father.”

The shock had been electrical, thrilling through every nerve of her body. It was so unexpected—such a reverse to the joyous feelings with which she had opened the letter, that Dorothy was stunned, and as yet hardly conscious of the extent of her misery.

She took the glass of water mechanically, and drank the whole of the contents. Pride came to her assistance. She could not bear that Mr. Rushmere, whose stern eye was fixed upon her, should read all the anguish of her heart. Choking down that bitter pang was not done without a tremendous effort, but it was done and successfully. Her hands ceased to tremble, and her voice became steady, as she read to the end of the fatal letter.

“We are busy raising recruits to fill up the blanks in the regiment, and I am ordered on this service. Directly our complement is complete, we embark for Spain, under the command of Sir Arthur Wellesley. I shall not be able to run down to see you; but remember me kindly to all the Storby and Hadstone folks, and believe me to remain, your affectionate son,

“GILBERT RUSHMERE.”

The dreadful task was ended. Dorothy quietly put down the letter on the table, and left the room.

“Wife,” cried the old man, rubbing his hands, “that be glorious news.”

“It is a great mercy, Lawrence, that his life was spared,” returned the mother, thoughtfully.

“Spared—his life spared. My woman, is that all you ha’ to say at the good fortin of our son? Think o’ him as an officer—a brave man—and a gentleman!” Wishing to flatter her female vanity, he added, with a shrewd smile, “He wor a handsome, straight-built feller—he will look well in his grand uniform.”

“Not dearer to me, Lawrence, than he was in his farm slop. I suppose his promotion is all for the best,” she continued with a sigh. “I shall be satisfied if he brings back to us the same warm heart. King George may have got a good soldier, and we may have lost an affectionate son. His letter is not like my Gilbert—it does not make me feel so happy as I expected.”

“You are thinking o’ the lass now, Mary. You ought to rejoice, woman, that he has given up all thoughts o’ her. Such low notions wu’d not suit him now. He seems determined to marry a lady, and build up the old house.”

“The house is good enough for the old inhabitants, Lawrence. As to Dorothy, she would be no disgrace to a richer family than ours.”

“It was kind o’ presumptuous, dame, in her, to think o’ marrying wi’ our son. But I see how the wind blows. You think a deal more o’ the lass than you do o’ your brave son.”

“I should have thought better of Gilbert had he sent a kind word to Dorothy, knowing, as he does, how much she loves him. The poor young thing, my heart aches for her. I hope, Lawrence, you will have the sense not to talk of him before her. It would be jagging a painful wound, while it is yet fresh and bleeding.”

“Whist, woman, hold up, don’t be arter telling me what to do, or not to do. I’m master o’v my own house any how—an’ o’v my own tongue, to boot. I’m glad, right heartily glad that ‘tis all off atween Gilbert an’ Dolly. Bless me,” and he rose hastily from his chair, “I ha’ quite forgotten the barley—an’ I hear Sam hollowing for me. Well, well, this be the best news that ha’ come to the house for many a long day.”

He left the room rubbing his hands, a fashion he had, whistling and singing alternately a stave of a harvest song.

“I’m ashamed of Lawrence,” said his kind wife, looking after him with the tears in her eyes. “To hear him singing like a boy, when he knows how the little maid is suffering. Ah, well,” wiping her eyes with her apron, “it’s no use talking—men never did, and never will understand the feelings of us poor women. It’s not in their hard rough nature, so it’s no use expecting any sympathy from them.” And with a heavy heart, in spite of the good news about her darling son, Mrs. Rushmere commenced clearing the table of the empty platters.

And what had become of Dorothy? She left the room scarcely conscious of what she was doing, and, without hat or shawl, wandered out upon the heath. Instinct guided her steps to the lonely hollow, in which had been unfolded the first page in her life’s history. There she was sure to be alone. No curious eye would venture there, to mark her grief or probe the anguish of her heart—the spot was haunted ground.

There she sat down—not to weep—her sorrow had not as yet found the blessed relief of tears. She could only press her hands tightly over her heart, and from time to time moan piteously—“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”

Every thing felt so blank and strange. There was such dull emptiness, where a few minutes before there had been such bounding joy.

It was long before a wave of thought broke in upon that deep dead calm; or her mind awoke to the painful conviction of her utter bereavement—a loss never again to be recovered in this cold unsympathizing world.

Had Gilbert been dead—had he fallen in his first battle, with the blessed consciousness that his last thoughts had been of her, the bitter pang would have been endurable. He still lived, but was dead to her. Nay, worse—he had ceased to love her—had forgotten her—did not trouble himself even to mention her name, or send one kind word of remembrance.

This was no casual omission—it was evidently designed. The blow was meant to strike home—to convince her that he had cast her off as a thing not worth remembering, or only as a stumbling block in his path to fortune. Had she deserved this? How full of bitterness was the thought. She could not dismiss it from her mind—it was graven there with a pen of iron. The reality was too certain to admit of excuse or palliation. It had become fact.

When he left his home in anger, she never imagined that it was with her—that he really meant what he said. When she remained firm to her duty—to the solemn promise she had given to his father, it was with the idea that she was serving him, and she had sufficient faith in his affection for her, to believe that he appreciated the heroic sacrifice.

He had cast her off there and then—had relinquished her for ever. He had asked her to leave the house with him, to become his wife, in the very face of his father’s anger; she had refused to accede to his request, and he had taken it as a final decision. She realized it all now.

But who was to blame in the matter? Had it not been her own act? She had stood firm to her word, and he had proved to her, bitterly proved to her, that he could as obstinately adhere to his.

But she had loved him—so faithfully, so well—had been so confident of his fidelity, that she could not as yet bring herself to believe, that he would part with her in that cold heartless manner. That he had left his parents, his country, his home, all the happy associations of his boyhood and youth, to be revenged on her.

She who had sacrificed her own feelings to do what she considered to be her duty. It was hard to think so meanly of Gilbert Rushmere. But he deserved it. The bitterest pang of her grief lay there.

He was no more worthy of her love. She must learn to forget.

Even in these moments of humiliation Dorothy felt that she had acted right, nor did she for an instant regret the course she had pursued. This sense of rectitude was the only prop upon which she could lean in her hour of desolation, but she found it, as every one will find it, a column of strength.

Hiding her crushed affections deep down in the silent chambers of her soul, she bowed her knees to the Heavenly Father, and in solemn earnest tones, besought the assistance of the Divine Comforter, to help her in her hour of need, and teach her resignation.

Who ever sought a healing draught from that life-giving fountain, and turned empty away? If their faith was too small to receive the full cup, some healing drops would reach the parched lips, to cool the burning thirst, and reconcile them to a sorrowful lot.

With Dorothy it was but a softening mist, a dew scattered by the spray of a fountain, that reached the arid desert of her heart—but ah, how magical were the effects. The hard resentful feelings which had been gathering against her ungrateful lover, gradually melted, and she wept.

Wept and prayed for the broken reed on which she had so long leant—the idol of clay, at whose feet she had so long worshipped; and while she forgave his desertion, she entreated of Heaven to bless him—to make him a wise, good man, useful in his day and generation.

The shades of night were closing fast around her, when Dorothy rose from her cold resting place, and returned home to perform her usual domestic labours. Her love was dead, but she had gained courage to bury it decently and sadly, and without uttering one wail, that might break upon the ears of the unsympathizing world. Her heart was the grave, into which she could retire at any moment to weep—the funeral lamp was ever burning—the sepulchre decked with flowers—and peace brooded there—a dove with folded wings.

CHAPTER III.

WHAT DOROTHY’S NEIGHBOURS SAID OF GILBERT’S DESERTION.

The news of Gilbert Rushmere’s good fortune soon spread through the parish. The farmer told it to his men in the field, the men told it, as in duty bound, to their wives, and then it flew like wildfire from house to house.

Miss Watling invited her neighbours to tea, to talk it over, and have her say upon the subject.

In her front parlour, or tea room, as she called it, were assembled several old friends.

The first in place and dignity, Mrs. Barford, senior, to whom had been assigned the large easy chair, with its commodious fringed cushion, and well padded elbows. For the special use of her feet a footstool, covered with a piece of coarse worsted work, which had been the pride of Miss Watling’s school days.

The old lady looked very dignified in her best black silk gown and cap of real French lace, and seemed to consider herself a person of no small importance.

Her daughter-in-law, who held a very subordinate position in the estimation of the public, sat near the window, as red, as plump, as much overdressed, and as vulgar looking as ever.

A rosy, curly-headed, blue-eyed boy was lounging over his mother’s knees, pulling at her smart cap-ribbons, and beating all the stiffness out of her gay muslin dress, by pounding it with his head. He was a beautiful child, and seemed to have it all his own way. Mrs. Sly and her daughter, Sarah Ann, a coarse black-browed lass of eighteen, and Mrs. Martha Lane, who kept the small shop, and sold tapes, needles, and pins, and other small wares in the village, made up the party.

Neither Mrs. Rushmere, nor her adopted daughter, Dorothy Chance, had been included in the invitation.

Miss Watling looked round the room with a gracious smile, to ascertain that her guests were all comfortably seated, before she introduced the great topic, the discussion of which had formed the chief inducement in bringing them together.

“Well, ladies, I suppose you have heard the news? That Miss Dolly Nobody won’t be Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere after all.”

“I never thought she wu’d,” said Mrs. Joe, looking up from the child’s sock she was knitting. “Gilbert know’d what he was about, when he run’d away. It was just to get quit o’ her.”

“I always said so from the first,” returned Miss Watling, “but you all had such ideas of the girl, that I could get no one to believe me.”

“I don’t think Gilbert has behaved well,” said Mrs. Barford, cautiously. “Dorothy Chance is a good girl, and a pretty girl.”

“Pretty,” sneered Miss Watling, interrupting her friend very unceremoniously, “I could never see any beauty in the wench, with her round black eyes and skin as dark as a gipsy’s. I don’t believe Gilbert Rushmere cared a snap of his fingers for her.”

“I know, Nancy, that he was very fond of her,” suggested Mrs. Barford, “and you know it too; for I have been told that he made you his confidant, and begged you not to press upon him the offer you made him, of taking your farm on shares.”

This was said very quietly, but it was a home-thrust. Miss Watling coloured up to the eyes.

“I guess who was your informant, Mrs. Barford. Gilbert left that very night, so you could not get it from him. The story is very worthy of credit, is it not, coming from such a source?”

“It is not true, then?” and the old lady put down her knitting, and looked Miss Watling full in the face.

“I did not say that,” said Miss Watling, sharply. “It is partly true and partly false. He did refuse my offer, and gave me his reasons for so doing.”

“What were they?” asked several eager voices.

“He wished to leave the country to get rid of his entanglement with Dorothy. ‘He could not marry,’ he said, ‘a girl so much beneath him.’”

“And you advised him to go, Nancy?”

“Yes, I did. I thought that it was the best thing he could do. And you see that I was right.”

Mrs. Barford took up her work and smiled.

“It was hard upon the poor old people for you to give him such counsel—still harder upon the poor girl. It nearly killed them, and went nigh to break Dorothy’s heart. I cannot yet believe that he has cast her off. Did any of you hear Gilbert’s letter?”

“Not read, but we heard the contents, ma’am,” said little Mrs. Lane. “Farmer Rushmere came into my shop yesterday for an ounce of tobaccy—he’s a great smoker.

“‘Mrs. Lane,’ says he, ‘my son Gilbert has been promoted for his gallant conduct. He’s an officer now in His Majesty’s service, and is going to marry a rich young lady in Lunnon, with a portion of six thousand pounds.’ These were the very words he said. ‘Lauk, sir,’ says I, ‘what will become of poor Dorothy?’”

“And what did he say?” again demanded the eager voices.

“‘She must get over her disappointment the best way she can,’ says he. ‘The girl is no worse off than she wor; she will still have a home at our house.’”

“Very kind of him, I’m sure,” said Miss Watling, “and she owes them so much.”

“I think the debt is the other way,” suggested Mrs. Barford. “Dorothy has repaid them a thousandfold. She has been a little fortune to them, and, besides her clothes, she receives no payment for her services. As to Gilbert marrying a lady of fortune, it may be true, it may not; these stories are always exaggerated. You all know that a great heap of chaff only contains a third of wheat.”

“I have no doubt it’s true,” cried Letty. “I allers thought Gilly Rushmere a right handsome feller.”

“I don’t agree with you there, Mrs. Joseph,” returned Miss Watling, to whom the grapes had become doubly sour, “he was too red and white to please my taste. His nose was turned up, and his hair decidedly carrotty.”

The other women looked down in their laps and tittered; the same thought was uppermost in all their minds.

Mrs. Joe, who had no delicacy, and hated Nancy Watling, burst into a rude laugh, and gave utterance to her’s with the greatest bluntness.

“All the parish said that you were over head and ears in love with Gilbert, Nancy; that you made him an offer of marriage yourself; and that he refused you point blank, for Dorothy Chance. Remember, I don’t say it’s true, but for all that I heard it, and that you have hated both of them like pison ever since.”

Miss Watling rose indignantly from her seat; her stiff black silk gown rustling ominously; her skinny bony hand extended towards the insolent speaker in defiance, her small bugle eyes eating her up with scorn. For a moment her rage was too great for words; her wrath almost choked her. The ferocious glare fell harmlessly upon little plump Letty, who continued to stuff her boy with rich plum cake. She meant to anger Miss Watling, and secretly enjoyed her discomfiture.

“You insignificant, vulgar thing,” at length hissed out the offended lady. “How dare you insinuate such vile stories against my character? Who and what are you, that you open your mouth against me? Every one knows the situation you were in, when Mr. Joseph married you, which he did to make an honest woman of you, and by so doing disgraced himself. If I did not respect him and his mother, I would order you out of my house, I would, I would, I would!”

“Don’t choke yourself, Nancy, and look so ugly at me. See how you frighten the child. Don’t cry, Sammy, eat your cake. That’s a good boy,” patting his curly head. “Miss Watling won’t bite you, child,” and Letty faced the now clenched hand and scowling brow of the injured lady with an undaunted stare, and a most provoking smile on her red pouting lips.

“Ignorant creature,” gasped Miss Watling, sinking into her chair; “but what can be expected of a dairy-maid? Mrs. Joe Barford, you are beneath contempt.”

“Spit out your spite, Nancy. Hard words won’t kill a body; I’m used to them. But what’s the use of all this fuss? I just told you what folks said of you, and you can’t take that, though you speak so hard of others. People will talk—you talk—I talk, and one’s just as bad as t’other. In course you culdn’t help Gilbert wishing to marry a young maid, instead of an old one. That wor do fault o’yourn; we’d all be young and handsum, if we could.”

This allusion to her age and personal defects was the unkindest cut of all. Miss Watling put down her cup of tea, leant back in her chair, and cried hysterically.

Little Sammy looked at her, stopped eating, made a square mouth, and began to roar aloud,

“Take out that squalling brat,” screamed Miss Watling, taking the handkerchief from her face; “my head will split.”

“Don’t be skeer’d, Sammy,” said Letty, stooping to pick up the piece of cake the child had dropped in his fright. “The woman’s angry with ma; she o’nt lump you.”

Miss Watling had wit enough to perceive that the little woman had the best of the battle; that she might as well try to catch a flea in the dark, as subdue the subtle venom of her tongue; so she thought it best to give in; and wiping the tears, or no tears from her eyes, she drew herself up with great dignity, and resumed the duties of the tea table, not, however, without muttering quite audibly to herself.

“Spiteful toad, I’ll never invite her to my house again.”

“Nobody wants you,” retorted Letty. “Just you try an’ see if I be fule enow to come?”

It was well for Letty Barford that much of this speech was lost in the prolonged roarings of Master Sammy whom the belligerent mother could only pacify by promptly leading from the room.

Though loath to leave the table and her tea unfinished, the little woman went out rubbing her hands, and rejoicing in her victory over her ill-natured adversary. Though Letty was not a whit behind Miss Watling in spite and malignity, she had no feelings to be touched, no nerves to be jarred or irritated. People might say what they liked to her; she did not care as long as she could wound them again, and she went out laughing at the skirmish she had had with the heiress.

Directly the coast was clear and peace restored, Mrs. Barford, the elder, took up the conversation. She felt a great liking for Dorothy, and wanted to hear all she could about her.

“I don’t believe this story, Mrs. Lane, about Gilbert and the rich lady. People always brag so, when any lucky chance happens to them, and old Rushmere was always a proud man. Can any of you inform me how Dorothy bore the news of her lover’s promotion, and of his giving her up?”

“He’s not her lover, Mrs. Barford. You labour under a great mistake, when you call him so. Did I not tell you, that it was all broken off before Gilbert went away?”

“I was told,” said Mrs. Lane, in a confidential whisper, “that Dolly fainted dead away after she had read the letter.”

“Only think of a dairy-maid, an unknown beggar’s brat, giving herself the airs of a fine lady,” sneered the charitable Nancy.

“She has her feelings, I suppose,” said Mrs. Barford. “It must have been a cruel blow, for I know the poor girl loved him with all her heart.”

“That she did, ma’am,” continued Mrs. Lane, “and the more’s the pity. I’m afeard she loves him still, she looks so pale and thin; and the bright eyes that were so full of joy and fun, have a mournful, downward look. It grieves me to see the poor thing. But she never says a word, never a word; and between ourselves, Miss Watling, Gilbert Rushmere might have done worse.”

“Not without he had taken a woman off the streets. Just imagine Dorothy Chance a captain’s lady,” said Miss Watling. “The girl’s uncommon handsome,” continued Mrs. Barford. “I believe that she is born to good fortune.”

“I suppose you have faith in the adage, ‘Bad beginnings make good endings.’ I am sure her beginning was low enough, and bad enough.”

“Oh, Nancy, don’t be so severe, we know nothing about that. I saw the corpse of the mother; and though, to be sure, she was bundled up in dirty, sorry-looking clothes, she had the smallest, whitest hand I ever saw. It did not look like a hand that had ever dabbled in dirty work, but had belonged to a real lady; and the ring we took off the finger was a wedding ring, and of real gold. She must have prized that ring very much; or I’m thinking that she would have sold it, to procure a night’s lodging for herself and her child. Dorothy is not like her mother, if that woman was her mother; she has not a common look; she speaks, and walks, and acts like one belonging to a better class, and I believe that she will yet turn out to be a lady.”

“Now, Mrs. Barford, that do put me in mind of a conversation I had the other day with Mrs. Brand, my lord’s housekeeper,” said Mrs. Lane. “Mrs. Brand is an old friend of mine, and she told me—but pray, ladies, don’t let this go any further—she told me that my Lord Wilton was so much struck with Dorothy, and her neat pretty ways, that he had her up into his library, and talked with her for an hour or more, and he found out a great resemblance between her and his mother. Mrs. Brand says that the likeness is kind of miraculous, and my lord asked Dorothy a heap of questions, and said that she should never want a friend while he lived.”

“Hem,” responded Miss Watling, tapping her foot quickly on the floor; “lords don’t take notice of girls like her for nothing. Miss Dolly had better mind what she’s about.”

“Didn’t you hear that she was going to school?” said Mrs. Sly, the publican’s wife, who had sat silent all this time, intently listening to the gossip of the others. Mrs. Sly was an excellent listener, and by no means a bad sort of woman, and much fonder of hearing than retailing gossip. She was esteemed in the village as a nice quiet body, who never said any ill of her neighbours, but Mrs. Sly never objected to hearing others talk about them.

“To school,” said Mrs. Barford, sitting forward in her chair, and opening her eyes wide; “I thought the girl could read and write. She and Gilbert went together to Brewer’s school down in the village for years. Mrs. Brewer always said that Dorothy was the cleverest child she ever taught.”

“Well, Mrs. Martin is teaching her now.”

“Oh, I knew she was helping our parson’s wife in the Sunday school,” replied Miss Watling. “That absurd piece of folly that my lord wants to thrust upon us.”

“Why, Nancy, you know nothing,” said Mrs. Lane, cutting into the conversation. “My lord is to give Mrs. Martin a hundred pounds a year to teach Dorothy Chance to be a lady.”

“It’s scandalous!” cried Miss Watling, turning livid with spite. “I wonder Lord Wilton is not ashamed of himself, to try and stick up a minx like that above her neighbours. It’s no wonder that Miss Chance walks so demurely into church beside the parson’s wife, and holds up her saucy head as if she was somebody. She’s a wicked bay tree, yes she is, and I’d like to scratch her impudent face.”

“She’s a clever lass, and no mistake, and a good girl, too, that is, if I may be allowed to be any judge of character,” said Mrs. Barford, “and I’ve had some sixty-five years’ experience of the world. Of Dorothy’s father we know nothing, and, perhaps, never will know anything; but this I do say, that Gil Rushmere was never comparable to Dorothy Chance, and we all know that he came of decent parents.”

“I’m sick of hearing about her,” cried Nancy, impatiently. “I believe that she’ll turn out just like her mother, and die in a ditch as she did.”

“No, no, no,” said Mrs. Barford, laughing, “you’ll live to see her ride to church in her carriage.”

“I wish I may die first!”

“It is her fate,” returned Mrs. Barford, solemnly. “Folks are born to good or ill luck, as it pleases the Lord. If he lifts them into high places, no one but himself can pull them down; if he places them in the low parts of the earth, it is not in our power to exalt them. It’s according to our deserts. He who created us, knows the stuff of which we are made before we are born; and he puts us in the right place, though we may fight against it all our lives, and consider it the very worst that could be chosen for us. I did not see it thus in my young days, but I begin to find it out now.”

During this long oracular speech, the ladies diligently discussed the good things on the table. Miss Watling hated people to preach over their bread and butter; but Mrs. Barford had acquired the reputation of being clever, and she dared not attempt to put her down, though she marvelled at her want of sense in taking the part of a low creature like Dorothy.

After the table had been cleared, the three other visitors proposed to join Letty in the garden, and Mrs. Barford and Miss Watling were left alone together. This was an opportunity not to be lost by the ill-natured spinster, who determined to be revenged on Letty by making a little mischief between her and her mother-in-law.

“How do you and Mrs. Joe get on together now?” said she, drawing her chair close beside the old lady; and speaking in a confidential sympathizing voice.

“Oh, much as usual; we are not very well sorted. Joe is contented and that’s the main thing. He is a rough fellow himself, and never had any ambition to be a gentleman.”

“Letty with her vulgar tongue is not likely to improve her husband’s manners,” said Miss Watling. “I am sure he is a gentleman to her. And how can you, my dear old friend”—this was said with a gentle pressure of the arm, and a look of great sympathy—“bear with the noise and worry of those children? The racket they make would drive me mad.”

Mrs. Barford shook herself free of the obtrusive hand and bridled up. She did not approve of the very strong accent given to the word those. It was an insult, and implied contempt of her son’s family.

A woman may listen complacently enough to remarks made against her daughter-in-law, but say a word against that daughter-in-law’s children, and she is in arms at once. Those children are her son’s children, and to disparage them, is to throw contempt on her. Mrs. Barford thought very little of Letty, but all the world of the little Letties, and she was very angry with Miss Watling for her ill-natured remark.

“The children are fine, healthy, clever children, of whom some people might be proud, if such belonged to them,” she said, drawing her chair back from the table, and as far from her hostess as possible. “But as that is never likely to be the case, the less said about them the better. The children are the joy of my heart, the comfort of my old age, and I hope to live long enough to see them grow up honest independent men.”

Here Mrs. Joe very opportunely opened the door, and master Sammy, restored to good humour, came racing up to his grandmother, his flaxen curls tossed in pretty confusion about his rosy face, his blue eyes full of frolic and glee.

“Ganma, horsey tome. Let’s dow home.”

The old lady pressed him against her breast, and kissed his sunburnt forehead, with maternal pride, thinking to herself, would not the spiteful old thing give her eyes to be the mother of such a bright boy? then aloud to him, “Yes, my dear boy, young folks like you, and old ones like me, are best at home.” She rose from her chair, and her rising broke up the party. It was by no means a pleasant one. Everybody was disappointed. The giver of the feast most of all.

Dorothy Chance, it would have made your cheeks, now so calm and pale, flush with indignant red; it would have roused all the worst passions in the heart, you are striving from day to day to school into obedience, had you been present at that female conference, and heard their estimate of your character and conduct. Few know all that others say of them, still less are they cognizant of their unkind thoughts. The young are so confident of themselves, have such faith in the good opinion which others profess to entertain for them, that they cannot imagine that deceit and malice, envy and hatred, lie concealed beneath the mask of smiling faces and flattering caresses.

It is painful indeed to awake to the dread consciousness that sin lies at the heart of this goodly world, like the worm at the core of the beautiful rose; that friends who profess to be such, are not always what they seem, that false words and false looks meet us on every side; that it is difficult to discover the serpent coiled among our choicest flowers.

Dorothy was still a stranger to the philosophy of life, which experience alone teaches; and which happily belongs to maturer years. But she had tasted enough of the fruit of the forbidden tree, to find it very bitter, and to doubt the truth of many things, which a few months before appeared as real to her as the certainty of her own existence.

Such had been Gilbert’s love,—that first bright opening of life’s eventful drama. It had changed so suddenly without raising a doubt, or giving her the least warning, to disturb her faith in its durability.

How often he had sworn to love her for ever. Dorothy thought those two simple words for ever, should be expunged from the vocabulary, and never be applied to things transitory again.

She had laughed at Gilbert when he talked of dying for love. She did not laugh now. She remembered feelingly how many true words are spoken in jest.

A heavy cross had been laid upon her. She had taken it up sorrowfully, but with a firm determination to bear its weight, without manifesting by word or sigh, the crown of thorns by which it was encircled, which, strive as she would, at times pierced her to the heart.

CHAPTER IV.

REMINISCENCES.

“What is the matter with Dorothy?” asked Henry Martin of his wife. “A great change has come over her lately. She looks pale, has grown very thin, and speaks in a subdued voice, as if oppressed by some great sorrow.”

“I think, Henry, it has some reference to her lover. Mrs. Barford hinted as much to me the other day as we walked together from church. Don’t speak of it to her. She will tell you all about it in her own time.”

“He was a fine, well-grown young man,” remarked the curate, “but very inferior to her in worth or intellect. I have often wondered that Dorothy could fancy him. But this trial is doubtless sent for her good, as all such trials are. For her sake, I am not sorry that he has cast her off.”

“It may be for the best, Henry, but such a disappointment is very hard to bear, and though she never alludes to it, I know she feels keenly his desertion.”

“It is singular,” mused the curate, and speaking as if to himself, “the deep interest that Lord Wilton takes in this girl. Do you know, Rosina,” turning to his wife, “I sometimes think that his regard for her is stronger than that of a mere friend.”

“Why, Henry, you don’t mean to insinuate that he wishes to make her his wife. He is old enough to be her father.”

“And what if he be her father,” continued Martin, in his abstracted way. “To his sin be it spoken. Sit down, Rosina, and take up your sewing. I want to have a serious talk with you about this matter.

“I met Lord Wilton the other day riding in the vicinity of Heath Farm. He drew up beside me, and asked how Dorothy was coming on with her lessons. I spoke of her highly as she deserves.

“He seemed strangely agitated. ‘Martin,’ he said, grasping my shoulder, as he leant towards me from the saddle, ‘you can do me no greater favour than by making that sweet girl a good Christian. I wish you to educate her thoroughly, both for earth and heaven, God bless her! I would give all I possess to see her happy.’

“He put spurs to his horse, and rode off at a reckless pace, like one who wished to get rid of painful recollections. I thought—but I may wrong him—that some connection existed between him and Dorothy, of which the world was ignorant, which would account for the deep melancholy that always clouds his face. Lord Wilton is a kind man, a benevolent man, but some hidden sin is wasting his frame, and robbing him of peace.”

“Has Dorothy any idea of this?”

“None, I am certain, and mark me, Rosina. This is a mere fancy of my own. You must not mention what I have said to her.”

“Certainly not.”

The good man walked to the window, and looked abstractedly across his small garden plot for a few minutes, then returned as suddenly to his seat.

“Rosina,” he said, looking with a half smile at his gentle partner, “these suspicions with regard to Dorothy, brought back to my memory a strange story. You will not be jealous, my dear wife, if I relate to you a tale of boyish love and its disappointments. It happened many years before I saw or had learned to love you.”

“Henry, that is a sad cut to my vanity,” returned his wife, laughing, “I always had flattered myself that I was your first love. However, I promise to give you a fair hearing, and will not be affronted, until I know the end of your story. But what connection it can have with Dorothy Chance puzzles me.”

“There may be none. It is only mere conjecture, as I said before. Of the probabilities I will leave you to judge.

“My father was curate of the neighbouring sea-port town during the few years of his married life. He conducted the morning and evening service, in that large beautiful old church that stands on the edge of the cliff, and had to walk over to Hadstone in the afternoon, through all weathers, to preach in our little church here. It was hard work, and very poor pay, his salary amounting, like mine, to eighty pounds a-year.”

“How did you contrive to live, Henry?”

“Not very luxuriously. Sprats and herrings were plentiful, however; my mother was an excellent manager, the neighbours were kind, and I was an only child; my parents worthy, pious people, and I a happy, hopeful boy.

“We lived in a little cottage near the sea, just before you turn into the main street. The first house in that street, and the one nearest to us, was occupied by a Mrs. Knight.

“She was an old woman, and must have numbered her threescore and ten years, when we came to Storby. She kept a small shop, confined entirely to the sale of French kid gloves, French laces, silks, shoes, and such articles of women’s wear.

“It was always suspected that these were smuggled goods, but Mrs. Knight was patronized by all the ladies in the place, and most likely, bribed the excise officer, a drunken, worthless fellow, to keep her secret.

“This woman, had been the wife of a trading captain, who sailed between that port and London, and old people who knew her in her young days, described her as having been a very handsome woman; but a darker, more repulsive-looking being I never saw. She had a terrible temper, and was morose and miserly in the extreme. I had read in the Bible of the witch of Endor, and I always fancied that she must have resembled Mrs. Knight. She seldom spoke to me, but when she did I felt a tremor creep through my limbs.

“She carried on a flourishing trade during her husband’s life. His ship was lost in a heavy gale on the coast, and she was left a widow with one son.

“This happened long before my time.

“Mrs. Knight’s great ambition was to make a fortune, and bring up her son John a gentleman. In both these projects she was disappointed.

“John Knight was born with marine propensities, and insisted on going to sea.

“After many desperate battles with the lad, of whom, however it appears, she was passionately fond, for he was eminently handsome, she gave a reluctant consent, and he went as junior mate in an East Indiaman.

“A voyage to the East Indies and back, in those days, could not be accomplished in less than eighteen months; and during those long intervals, Mrs. Knight toiled on at her illicit trade, to make money for this beloved son.

“While he was absent, an only sister died, a widow in poor circumstances, who on her death-bed sent for Mrs. Knight and implored her to take under her protection her daughter, a young girl of sixteen, as she had no friends by the father’s side, who could or would do so.

“After some demur on the part of Mrs. Knight, she gave the required assent, and the poor woman died in peace, and Maria returned with her aunt to Storby.

“The girl was very pretty, brisk, clean and handy; could read and write, and was a good accountant; and the aunt began to think that her advent was quite a godsend in the little shop. Maria was an especial favourite with the customers, and was so obliging and useful that even the cross aunt often spoke of her as quite a treasure.

“All things went on smoothly until John Knight returned from sea; and, finding a cousin in the house of whom he had never before heard, and that cousin a pretty winning creature, he naturally fell desperately in love with her, and wished to establish a closer relationship between them.

“Seeing that the girl was on good terms with his mother, and that their own position might be considered in the lower walks of life, John lost no opportunity to make himself agreeable to Maria, till the young folks were over head and ears in love.

“Some neighbours, who thought that the match had been agreeable to all parties, complimented Mrs. Knight on her son’s approaching marriage with her niece.

“Then the clouds gathered, and the storm burst upon the luckless pair. Mrs. Knight raged, John swore, and Maria cried. The rebellious son declared that he would marry the girl he loved, in spite of all the mothers in England; that if she refused her consent, and persuaded Maria to yield obedience to her unreasonable demands, he would leave England for ever, and never let her hear from him again.

“This threat did frighten the cold, hard woman. There was only one thing she loved in the world, and that was her son. For him she toiled and took no rest, saving and accumulating to make him rich, and now he was going to frustrate all her plans for his advancement by marrying a girl who was a beggar depending upon her bounty. What was to be done? She saw that he was determined to have his own way, that violent opposition to his wishes would only make him obstinate, that she must use some other means to circumvent his wishes.

“She accordingly let the subject drop, forbidding either of them to mention a word of it to her again; and John went off to visit a shipmate who resided in the country, hoping to find his mother in a better temper when he returned.

“He was to be absent a month, and Mrs. Knight took this opportunity of informing Maria that her services were no longer required, and if she did not leave the town immediately and seek service elsewhere, it would be the worse for her. That she had acted most ungratefully in daring to inveigle the affections of her son; and that she would never forgive her to her dying day.

“The girl wept and entreated, said that she knew no one in the town, who would take her in; that she had no money, and on her knees promised her aunt, that she would never marry John without her consent, if she would only for this once forgive an offence which was quite involuntary on her part.

“John was so handsome, and had been so kind to her, that she had fallen in love with him without knowing it. Her aunt had not warned her that she was not to look at him or speak to him, or she would have been more circumspect.

“Mrs. Knight was deaf to reason and nature. She had been a young woman herself, and might have been in love, but it seems she had forgotten all about it, and, after venting upon her niece all the pent up wrath she was afraid of bestowing upon her son, she turned the poor girl into the streets.

“Fortunately for Maria, she had received a very tender note that morning from John, by the hands of a sailor who was returning to his friends at Storby, and the man informed her of the place where her lover was to be found; for he had left the house in a rage without telling his mother or Maria the name of the parties with whom he was going to stay.

“The town was a sea-port thirty miles distant, and she walked the whole way without a penny in her purse, or a morsel to eat. When she got to the house where young Knight was staying, she sat down on the door-step, overcome with shame and fatigue, and began to cry. John, returning from a frolic with a set of jolly tars, found his mistress sitting alone in the street, half dead with cold and fright. The next morning he got a license, and went to church with her and married her, in the face of the whole congregation, for it was Sunday.

“A week after, Mrs. Knight was standing at the door of her shop, not very well satisfied with the turn things had taken, and wondering what had become of Maria, whom she missed more and more every day from behind the counter, when a chaise drove up to the door, and John Knight led his bride up to his mother, and introduced her as his wife, with an air of genuine triumph.

“‘You don’t dare to tell me, John, that you have married Maria?’

“‘She is my wife, mother, I insist upon your receiving her as your daughter.’

“‘You can’t force me to do that, John. She shall never set her foot in my house again.’ Mrs. Knight scowled defiantly at the young married pair.

“John answered, with great good humour, ‘Nonsense, mother, listen to reason. Your being angry cannot undo the knot the parson has tied. Death only can do that. We are one. If you turn out Maria, you turn out me. You ought to be obliged to me for bringing home your niece safe and in her right mind. You turned her into the streets, without a penny in her pocket to buy a morsel of bread, or to pay for the shelter of a roof, the orphan child of your sister. She might have been ruined. God ordered it otherwise—be thankful that he has saved you from a greater sin. And now kiss and be friends, or you and I, mother, part upon this threshold to meet no more on earth.’

“The threat of losing him—her idol, was enough to terrify Mrs. Knight into submission. She promised to forget the past, and to be kind to her daughter-in-law, if her son would only consent to remain at home. The women kissed one another.

“Oh, women, women! How often, Judas-like, you betray your best friends with a kiss. As long as John remained at home, things went on smoothly enough. Maria was very attentive to Mrs. Knight, and as she did not scold her, she was content to put up with her sullen humour for her husband’s sake.

“This hollow peace between the mother and daughter did not last long. The three first months of matrimonial life glided away only too quickly. John Knight received orders to join his ship, which had taken in her cargo, and was expected to sail in a few days.

“Sad news it was to the two young creatures, who were all the world to each other. The parting was like death to them. Mrs. Knight alone was tranquil, and received the intelligence with an air of indifference. She arranged everything for John’s departure, and left the husband and wife to spend the last hours of their union in undisturbed sorrow.

“A long perilous voyage was before John Knight. He felt not a little down-hearted at leaving Maria with his mother. He did not exactly like the ominous peace she had maintained with her daughter-in-law. It was not natural—not, at least, to her, who was wont to let her wrath find a voice, and speak in terrible tones on all occasions; and but for Maria’s advice to the contrary, he would have hired a lodging for her at a distant part of the town. She was likely, too, to become a mother. He was doubtful how Mrs. Knight would receive the expected stranger. He knew that she hated the noise of children, and he feared that Maria would have a poor time of it during his long absence.

“The young wife had none of these apprehensions. She was quite willing to believe that the old woman’s anger towards her had died a natural death, and that she, Maria, was indispensable to the comfort of the mistress of the house, and her presence necessary for the well-doing of the shop.

“John was at length persuaded that all was right, but he yielded the point very reluctantly.

“Before leaving the house, he solemnly confided his young wife to the care of his mother, and begged her to treat her as a daughter for his sake.

“The old woman promised nothing, but seemed hurt that he should consider it necessary to urge upon her so earnestly such a request.

“‘Did he expect,’ she said, angrily, ‘that she was going to murder the girl the moment that he was out of sight?’

“John’s ship had not sailed many days before the hatred Mrs. Knight had so long concealed came into active operation, and she commenced a series of aggressions against her daughter-in-law, that rendered her life miserable, and slowly and surely undermined her constitution.

“She had to endure vehement reproaches, and all the scornful contempt that a strong, harsh nature can bring to play upon a timid, sensitive mind, that cannot fail to be weakened and borne down in the unequal struggle.

“Maria did not, however, yield. She bore the attacks of her vindictive enemy with wonderful courage, offering a firm and silent resistance to her imperious demands, while she accorded a willing obedience to whatever was not cruel and unreasonable, leaving the old woman no grounds of complaint, and often turning her malicious attacks upon herself by pretending not to see them.

“She had a double motive for acting entirely upon the defensive, the welfare of her husband, for she knew that her aunt was rich, and that of her child, whose advent she looked forward to as a recompense for all her troubles.

“This longed-for, but dreaded event, at last arrived, and Maria became the mother of a female child, to the increased dissatisfaction of Mrs. Knight, who said,

“‘That even in this matter Mrs. John was determined to spite her, by having a girl. She knew how she hated girls.’

“Maria was too much engrossed with her new treasure to heed these ungracious complaints. It was a beautiful healthy infant, and she had come through the trial so well, that she had every reason to be thankful.

“The old woman, for a wonder, was kinder to her than she expected, and spared no expense in providing her with good and nourishing diet, and the attendance of an excellent nurse, though she still grumbled at the sex of the child.

“About ten days after young Mrs. Knight’s confinement, she was found one morning dead in her bed. The nurse said that she was quite well when she went to bed, had eaten a bowl of gruel, and laughed and chatted with her about the baby, kissing it frequently, and declaring that it was the picture of John.

“The nurse scolded her for talking so much, took the baby from her, and bade her go to sleep. She slept in the same bed with her mistress, and took charge of the child, that its mother might not be troubled with it during the night.

“Early in the morning, when the nurse awoke, she spoke to young Mrs. Knight, and told her that the babe wanted her; receiving no answer, she grew uneasy, and sitting up in the bed, discovered that the poor girl was dead.

“The alarm was instantly given; the neighbours poured in; two doctors rushed to the rescue; old Mrs. Knight wept and wrung her hands, while the women filled the house with shrieks and lamentations.

“No suspicion was aroused by the appearance of the dead. The corpse presented the happy, tranquil aspect of one who had died in sleep, while under the influence of some pleasing dream. It was not the age for chemical investigations. No one suspected any foul play, and no evidence was sought for to prove that such had been the case. Maria Knight was consigned to her early grave without any question being raised of her right to be there. She had died, the coroner said, “by the visitation of God,” and the sympathizing neighbours, and the pitiful women were contented.

“Mrs. Knight had a wet nurse for the child, and gave the dead mother a very handsome funeral; though no one ever heard her express the least regret for her untimely death.

“‘As for the child,’ she said, ‘if it had been a boy, and like John, she could have loved it. It was the image of its mother, she wished it had died with her, for she never liked her; and it was hardly to be expected that she should feel any great affection for her child.’ She named the child Alice, after her sister. She had had enough of the name of Maria, and did not wish to have it recalled to her memory.

“People marvelled at the hard, cold heart, that could transmit hatred to the second generation; but they all had experienced the uncongenial nature of Mrs. Knight, and merely shrugged their shoulders, and said, ‘It was just like her; what would John Knight say, when he came home.’

“But John Knight never came home. Never heard of the death of his young wife, or the birth of his child. His ship was lost at sea, and all hands perished.

“The arrow launched by the hand of Heaven went home to the cruel mother’s heart; for months she raved over the loss of her son, and only recovered her reason to become more cruel and grasping than ever. Her idol of flesh had perished. She now set up one of gold, and all that remained of human softness in her nature, became as hard as the metal which composed her new divinity.

“She took very little notice of the orphan babe. She had tolerated it while her son lived; but he was gone, and the hated mother alone survived in the child. She never caressed it, seldom spoke to it, or of it, and always treated it with the most marked neglect.

“The extreme beauty of the little girl deeply interested the sympathies of my dear mother, who was one of the kindest women on earth; her large maternal heart, yearning over everything in the shape of a child, especially if that child was illused and an orphan.

“She often sent me to Mrs. Knight, to invite Alice to spend the day with her; that the children might have a good romp in the garden together.

“I was just four years older than Alice, but very small for my age. She was a healthy, well-grown child, there did not look more than the difference of a year in our respective ages. I had neither sister nor brother, and these visits from our little neighbour were hailed by me with intense pleasure.

“What a sweet child she was, with such a pair of clear, laughing blue eyes, such a happy, dimpled, innocent little face, yet brimful of mirth and mischief, and then, such wealth of golden brown hair, falling all round her rosy cheeks in showers of shining curls. She was my darling, my precious pet, and she would answer to no other names. I fell in love with her as a boy, and for years I only felt alive and happy in her presence.

“Hand in hand we roamed the beach to look for shells and bright stones, or wandered about the green common at the back of the town, among the gay furze bushes, hunting for the first violets.

“Mrs. Knight stood somewhat in awe of my father. Violence loves to contend with violence; it can only be subdued by gentleness and patience. My father’s amiable qualities opposed to her fierce anger, were arrows in the hand of the giant, silently and surely they demolished the bulwarks of pride and hatred behind which she sought to entrench herself.

“She was civil to my mother, and though I shrank from the stern, sharp, scowling face, she sometimes condescended to pat my head, and call me a pretty boy.

“I had once seen her beat Alice very severely, for having mislaid her bonnet; and I never saw Mrs. Knight without longing to beat her after that.

“Cross as she was to other people, she never hindered our happy meetings, and I ought to have felt grateful for that favour.

“My father grew so fond of the beautiful child, that he offered to teach her gratis. Mrs. Knight was too proud to accept this at his hands; but she sent the child to school with us, and paid liberally for her education.

“We now sat upon the same form, learned from the same books, shared in the same amusements, and had but one heart between us.

“Childhood lives in the present, it remembers little of the past, and the future stretches before it like a summer sea, bounded by the heavens and bright with sunbeams. The morrow will be fair as to-day, it never anticipates a storm, or thinks of the possibility of change. Alice and I were always to live together, the idea of separation found no place in our thoughts.

“Time rolled on, I had just completed my fifteenth year, when it pleased God to remove my dear father—a blow so sudden, so unexpected, that for a long time my poor mother and I were plunged into the deepest sorrow.

“He was a good man. I loved him without fear, entertaining for him the most profound respect and veneration; and feeling the fullest confidence in his attachment to me.

“This was my first grief, and if Alice had not been always near me to wipe away my tears, and inspire fresh hope into my fainting heart, I hardly think I should have survived the shock, and, for some months after the occurrence of the sad event, was threatened with consumption.

“My mother struggled bravely with her sorrow, for my sake. Our means always limited, became doubly so now. It was perhaps a mercy that we were called upon to work; not allowed to sit idle, and waste the precious time in unavailing regrets. Action is the best antidote for grief, occupation deadens suffering by forcibly detaching the mind to pursue other objects, which gives birth to new hopes as a necessary consequence.

“My mother opened a school for young ladies, and worked hard at her new vocation.

“An uncle, who was in a large wholesale business in London, exerted his influence to get me into Christ Church School, and was successful.

“Then came the parting with my mother, and dare I say it, worse still, my separation from Alice.

“It was a heart-breaking affair on all sides. I pitied my mother most, for she loved as keenly and had less of our sympathy, which as love is generally selfish, was almost entirely centred in our own sorrow.

“Boy as I was, I felt a sad presentiment that Alice and I were never destined to be so happy again, but the actual parting, so full of anguish to us, was not without its gleams of joy.

“It was the first of May, but we had not given that circumstance a thought, though its return in other years had always been hailed with delight. The day was fair and beautiful; the grass emerald green, and starred with myriads of daisies; the hedge-rows white with fragrant blossoms; the birds, happy lovers, singing glad carols from every bush and spray, the air soft, the heavens full of light fleecy clouds, floating in a sky of pearly blue.

“We sat down among the tufts of golden broom, upon a green slope at the far side of the common, where the high land that bounded the coast, gradually descended till it was lost in the long line of level marshes, through which the slow river dragged its sluggish length to the sea.

“It was a lonely spot; only frequented by the herds that fed upon the common; we had little dread of interruption. The public road was more than a mile distant; and it was a rare occurrence for anyone to pass that way. Here, no prying curious eyes could look upon our grief; we might indulge in the luxury of woe to the uttermost, without fearing a reproof for excess.

“Holding each other by the hand, we wept and bemoaned our sad fate, until we had no tears left to shed. Then we looked mournfully into each other’s eyes, without uttering a word, entranced and full of speechless affection. In this eloquent silence, the long hours rolled on, all too short for us, until the church clock tolled six.

“I was to leave by the coach for London at seven. The sound, as it boomed along the hollow cliffs, startled us. Our dream of love was over. The terrible reality of the parting stared us in the face.

“‘Henry, we must go home.’ sobbed Alice. ‘You have still to bid your mother good-bye. She will be waiting for us.’

“These were the first words we had spoken, to each other.

“I wanted to tell Alice all the love I felt for her, though I was certain that she was as well acquainted with the fact as I was myself; and of her affection for me I entertained not a doubt, but I wanted to hear her promise to love me and only me, for ever and ever, and to return the blessed assurance given to me, with interest, but my tongue was tied. I could not put my thoughts into language, the very intensity of my passion rendered me dumb.

“We walked home silently together; my mother met us at the door. She too had been weeping, for her eyes were red and heavy.

“The tea was waiting for us on the table, but how could we eat? My mother did not press us, neither did she chide our long absence. She looked at us kindly through her tears.

“‘Poor things!’ I heard her murmur to herself. ‘It is their first grief.’

“At any rate, we had her warm sympathy.

“She had packed my trunks during our absence, and they were in the passage ready corded for the coach; before we were aware of it, the stage rattled up to the door, there was no time left for love pledging now, or heart-breaking farewells.

“One long, fond embrace from that dear mother. One kiss, the last I ever received from my child-love, and we parted, I to embark upon the stormy ocean of life, and Alice to return a sad and lonely creature to her miserable home, and the tender mercies of her harsh grandmother.

“A few weeks after I left S–-, one of those strange incidents, which sometimes occur in life, separated us more effectually.

“The Lady Dorothy Fitzmorris, the mother of the present Earl, was then living at the Hall. Her eldest son—for Lord Wilton was not the heir—commanded a regiment in America during the War of Independence. His brother Edward served as captain under him. Both were fine promising young men, they were her only children.

“Her husband, Sir Thomas Fitzmorris, had been dead for some years. The title of Wilton did not belong to the Fitzmorris family, but came through her ladyship’s father.

“Sir Thomas had a younger brother, Gerald, who was a distinguished officer in the army. I was for several years tutor to his sons. His wife ran off with a General Dallas. A duel ensued. Gerald Fitzmorris was shot by the man who had dishonoured him; and his wife followed her paramour to India. This brief story of the family is necessary for the better understanding of my story. How often have I wished that I had never known one of the name.”

“Don’t say that, Henry. It sounds like ingratitude when the Earl has been so kind to us,” said Mrs. Martin.

The curate answered with a sigh, and continued his narrative.

“Well, the Lady Dorothy was an excellent woman, greatly beloved in the parish, for she was very kind to the poor, and was ready to help any one that stood in need of her assistance. She was a very beautiful woman. When you see Dorothy Chance, you have a striking likeness of her ladyship; but without the dignity and nameless grace which generally belongs to the high born lady.

“Lady Dorothy happened one day to be in Mrs. Knight’s shop, and Alice was behind the counter. Struck with the wonderful beauty of the young girl, she inquired of Mrs. Knight who she was, and when told that it was her grandchild, she complimented the old lady on her possessing such a treasure.

“‘Treasure,’ quoth Mrs. Knight, with a scornful glance at the object of the great lady’s admiration. ‘I set small store by such a treasure. She has been a source of trouble and sorrow to me since the hour she was born. I should only be too glad to give her to any one who thought such a treasure worth having.’

“‘Will you give her to me?’ said my lady, as she observed the eyes of the lovely girl running over with tears. ‘I want a person of her age, to attend upon me. I will pay her well, and have her educated according to her station.’

“‘Your ladyship may take her, if you have a fancy for her. She will be prouder of being your servant than she is of being my child.’

“So my sweet little Alice was transplanted like a lovely wild flower into the Hall garden, and was soon lost to her early friends.

“My mother wrote me all about her favourite’s good fortune; but the news gave me little pleasure. From that hour I had a presentiment of that which in after years actually came to pass.

“My uncle was in a good business in London, and he always invited me to spend my vacations with him. He had too large a family of his own, to help me in any other way; but he always contrived that my dear mother should meet me at his house during the holidays, and share with me his liberal hospitality.

“After my term of scholarship expired, I was entered as a servitor at Cambridge, and studied hard to obtain my degree, and get into holy orders.

“My mother was growing old, and her health was failing. I was anxious to give her a home, and release her from the fatiguing life in which she was engaged.

“Seven years had passed away since Alice and I parted. My mother had long ceased to mention her in her letters; but her memory was as fresh in my heart as ever.

“The hope of her becoming my wife, directly I was able to support her, had been the great object of my life. It had supplied me with the energy and perseverance, in which physically I had always been deficient. I returned to the home of my childhood, full of happy anticipations. I was no longer a boy, but a thoughtful, studious man, with no stain upon my reputation, having earned a high character both at school and during my college life.

“Oh; well I remember the first time I saw Alice after my return to S–-. She was in Lady Dorothy’s carriage, seated beside her ladyship, with a beautiful infant in her lap.

“I raised my hat as the equipage passed. She did not recognize me. I do not think she noticed me at all. The hot blood flushed my face. Mortified and cut to the heart, I hurried home.

“My mother seemed to comprehend what had happened.

“‘You have seen Alice?’ she said.

“‘Yes, but she did not see me.’

“‘It is as well,’ she returned coldly. ‘Alice is no longer a simple-hearted child. The false position in which she has been placed has made her proud and vain. It would have been better for her to have remained with her cross, disagreeable grandmother, than to have been tolerated by the high born and wealthy.’

“I felt angry with my mother for speaking thus of Alice. I thought it harsh and unkind.

“The glimpse I had caught of her face had rekindled the old fire in my heart. She was a beautiful, elegant, fair woman. The very beau ideal of my long dream of love, and should yet be my wife, if it were possible for me to make her so.

“With some trepidation, I asked my mother what position she filled at the Hall, and whose child it was she held in her arms?

“‘I cannot exactly answer your question,’ she said. ‘She is neither regarded as a servant, nor yet as one of the family. She is generally in attendance upon my lady, and takes care of her little grandson.’

“‘To which of her sons does the child belong?’

“‘To the youngest, Captain Edward, who is now at the Hall. His young wife died in child-bed, and people talk largely of his admiration for his mother’s pretty protégée.’

“I sprung from my chair. ‘Mother, mother!’ I cried. ‘Do you mean to drive me mad? This low village tattle is unworthy of you.’

“‘I fear that there is some truth in these reports,’ said my mother quietly. ‘Alice used to speak to me when we met, and make affectionate inquiries about her old playfellow; but for the last three months, she passes me without recognition.’

“‘That looks strange. But however appearances may be against her, I cannot and I will not believe anything to her discredit even from your lips.’

“I seized my hat, and walked up the road at an excited pace, and never slackened my speed, till I reached a stile that led through the park.

“I don’t know what took me in that direction. I was unconscious of the fact, until I found myself there. It was the last spot in the world in my then mood, to which I should have bent my steps. But once there, the place seemed congenial to my feelings.

“I crossed the stile and plunged into a wilderness of shade, glad to find myself in gloom and solitude.

“After a while, the dark grove widened, the sunlight pierced the branches and danced upon the ground, and leaving trees and shadows behind, I emerged into an open lawn-like space as smooth and green, as velvet turf and moss could make it, and reclining under the one huge oak, that towered up like a giant in the centre, I saw her whom I least expected to see, and who at that moment occupied all my thoughts.

“The recognition was mutual. But when I called her by name and hurried forward to meet her, she started up like a frightened doe and fled.

“I did not follow; my mind was distracted with doubt. A jealous agony filled my soul. I staggered to the spot she had occupied, threw myself beneath the tree, and burying my face in my hands wept long and bitterly.

“In this abandonment of grief and love, a voice, a man’s voice, whispered near me:

“‘Alice, my dear Alice.’

“I raised my head and looked the speaker in the face. I did not know him personally then. I know him now. It was Lord Wilton. Captain Edward Fitzmorris, in those days. His faced kindled to a deep red. He muttered something about ‘people intruding upon private property,’ and walked hastily away, and I returned to my mother bearing in my heart the bitter conviction of the truth of her remarks.

“The next day I left S–-.

“It was not long before I got a letter from my mother, which informed me that Alice had been dismissed from the Hall in disgrace, and had returned to her grandmother, who, finding that she was likely to become a mother, and that she obstinately refused to name the father of her child had driven her from the door, and the unfortunate girl had wandered away, no one knew whither.

“My mother had tried to discover her retreat, but could obtain no trace of her. It was the general report of the town that she had walked into the sea when the tide was coming in, and suffered the waves to flow over her.

“Her fate still remains a mystery.

“Suspicion pointed to Captain Fitzmorris as her probable seducer. For my own part, I never had any doubts upon the subject. He left England, as attaché to a foreign embassy, a few months before her dismissal from the Hall, and never visited this part of the country until lately.

“Sir Thomas, his elder brother, was killed in battle; Earl Wilton, his uncle, died shortly after, and Captain Edward inherited, through his mother, his title and immense wealth.”

“But, my dear Henry, I do not see what connection all this has with Dorothy Chance,” said Mrs. Martin.

“Well, wife, if you do not, I do, for I believe that Dorothy is the daughter of the Earl by Alice Knight. Her age agrees exactly with what would have been the age of that child. The description of the mother bears a strong resemblance to that unfortunate creature, and then her striking likeness to the Earl and his mother is something more than a coincidence. But you have not heard my story to the end.

“Mrs. Knight died some ten years ago. On her death-bed, she confessed to me that she had poisoned Maria in that bowl of gruel; that she believed that the poor vagrant found dead on the heath was Maria’s child, for on the night of the storm she had seen her apparition, in a dream, and awoke in a terrible state of mental agony, in the firm conviction that her cruel conduct had been the cause of her grandchild’s death.

“The next day she went with a crowd of neighbours to farmer Rushmere’s to see the corpse of the poor woman; which though unrecognized by them, she was certain, after making due allowance for her destitute condition, was the body of Alice Knight. As a sort of atonement, for her crimes and barbarous cruelty to this unfortunate creature, she left the large fortune she had accumulated to the child of this vagrant, if it could be satisfactorily proved that it was the daughter of Alice Knight. If after the lapse of thirty years it remained unclaimed, it was to form a fund for the relief of mariners shipwrecked upon this coast.”

“Now, Henry, this makes your story as clear to me as daylight,” said Mrs. Martin, “can’t you prove Dorothy’s identity and claim the fortune for her?”

“Ah, my dear wife, there lies the difficulty. Who is there to prove it? It all rests on circumstantial evidence, which, though it can, and has brought many a neck to the gallows, is very insufficient when it relates to claiming fortunes.

“I don’t think that it would conduce to Dorothy’s happiness, the possession of a large fortune. The girl is much happier as she is. While the money applied to the relief of the destitute seamen would do a great deal of good.

“I had always been haunted by a horrible suspicion,” continued the curate, “that Mrs. Knight had murdered Alice. Her confession cleared up that doubt for ever. For though her harsh treatment, I have every reason to think, overwhelmed the poor girl in difficulties that led to her untimely death, it is a satisfaction to know that she did not actually perish by her hand.”

“A poor satisfaction, Henry. Did the cruel old woman die penitent?”

“Her end was without hope. An agony of remorse. A presentiment of certain punishment, and no recognition of the Saviour. Rosina, it was an awful death. God is a God of mercy, but if his word is true it was impossible for that soul to be saved. A full conviction of guilt without repentance is the saddest state which a human creature can experience, and such was hers. If we wait patiently, time will bring to light the hidden things of darkness. The crimes committed by her in secret were revealed amid the shadows of the dark valley.

“I cannot repeat the ravings of that unhappy woman. They were too shocking to retain in one’s memory; only to think about them, seemed like blasphemy. I never recall that night, when I watched and prayed beside her death-bed, without a shudder, and whispering to myself, But for God’s grace I might have been like her. Oh, save me righteous Jesus from the death of the wicked. It is only thou that makest one sinner to differ from another. Without thee, we can indeed do nothing.”

CHAPTER V.

DOROTHY BECOMES RECONCILED TO THE LOSS OF HER FIRST LOVE.

A fortnight had scarcely elapsed, before Gilbert wrote again to his parents. The letter contained a hurried farewell, penned a few hours before his regiment embarked for Spain. There was no message for Dorothy, her name was not mentioned, and the omission was evidently intentional.

How little Gilbert Rushmere suspected the share that Dorothy had had in his advancement, that but for her, he might have remained a private in the –- regiment during the term of his military service. So short sighted are we poor mortals—that the very means adopted by Lord Wilton to secure Dorothy’s union with the man she loved, by exciting his ambition and avarice, had brought about their separation, and that, too, more effectually than Mr. Rushmere’s unreasonable objections to their marriage.

A few days after Gilbert left England, Dorothy accidentally encountered Lord Wilton on the heath.

She was thinking of Gilbert, but not with the sad tearful tenderness that his desertion had hitherto called forth. His marked neglect had caused a reaction. She felt indignant at his conduct. His silence was not only cruel, it was insulting, and implied that he no longer deemed her worthy of a thought.

In order to maintain her self-respect, she could view it in no other light, and would endeavour to meet it with the indifference and contempt it deserved.

Hate him she could not, nor did she wish to do so; but her love for him had subsided into a very tranquil stream; no longer leaping over every obstacle that impeded its course, with the headlong impetuosity of youthful passion.

She could now speak of Gilbert to his parents without tears choking her voice, and think of him calmly when alone. The wound he had inflicted on her heart, however painful to bear in its first agony, was surely and slowly healing itself.

Nature is a great mental and bodily physician, if people would only let her perform her mysterious operations alone; injudicious interference causes all the danger, and often destroys the reason and life of the sufferer.

But it was to describe Dorothy’s interview with Lord Wilton, and not to moralize on love and disappointment that we commenced this chapter.

The nobleman dismounted from his horse, and accosted his protégée with his usual kindness, and inquired with great earnestness of look and tone, “If Gilbert Rushmere had been down to see her, and if she was pleased with his promotion.”

The first question she promptly replied to in the negative. His lordship seemed surprised and annoyed. “With regard to his promotion,” she said, “his parents could but be pleased and gratified, and the young soldier spoke of it with the deepest gratitude.”

“But what do you think of it, Dorothy? Will his good fortune make you happy?”

The young girl’s lips quivered. She grew very red, then turned as pale as ashes, but mastering her emotion, she answered with tolerable self-command.

“I hope so for his parents’ sake.”

“Not for your own, Dorothy.”

Dorothy’s voice dropped almost to a whisper, as she stammered out: “Oh, my lord, don’t ask me, I have really not the courage to speak about it.”

“But, my dear girl, I must know the reason of this distress. I thought you and Gilbert were one?”

“I thought so once.” She looked down and pressed her hands tightly over her breast. “My lord, Gilbert Rushmere has forgotten me.”

“The traitor.”

“Do not blame him too severely, my lord. Perhaps I have been too harsh in my condemnation. It is not his fault that I placed too high an estimate on his character, was too confident in his love. He has only acted according to his nature. He has not deceived me, I have suffered my affection for him to blind my eyes to his faults.”

“My noble girl, I cannot suffer you to excuse him by taking the blame of such selfish, heartless conduct on yourself.”

“Ah, my lord, we are all more or less selfish and the creatures of circumstance; while I continued to love Gilbert, his desertion seemed to me very dreadful; the anguish it gave me was almost more than I could bear, but now when it is all over, and I can think of it calmly, I see it in a very different light. While we lived in the same house, learned from the same books, and worked together in the same fields, there was a natural equality between us. But since Gilbert has acquired a higher position, associated with well educated people, and seen more of the great world, he feels a superiority over me, of which he was before entirely ignorant. He has advanced, while I remain in the same position in which he left me, a servant, in his father’s house.”

Lord Wilton winced. “An adopted daughter, I thought.”

“Ah, my lord! truth is truth. I may deserve to be so considered, and as far as dear Mrs. Rushmere is concerned I enjoy the love and confidence of a child. With the old man I am only his servant.”

Lord Wilton sighed heavily. Dorothy’s speech evidently pained him, but he made no comment upon it. He walked on by her side for some minutes in silence. “And what led you to conclude that Gilbert Rushmere had forgotten you?”

“Simply, my lord, because he has ceased to mention me in his letters, and talks of marrying some one else.”

“Very conclusive reasons, my poor child. But are you certain that this is no jealous freak on your part, but really a deliberate act of desertion on his?”

“I never was jealous of Gilbert in my life,” and Dorothy drew herself up with no little dignity, “my faith in his love was too great for that.”

“Which makes your present disappointment harder to bear.”

“Yes, my lord,” and Dorothy drew a long sigh, “but I feel it less than I did a month ago. The heart knows its own bitterness; a stranger cannot enter into its joys or sorrows. So the Scriptures say. I do not quote the passage correctly, but it is something to that effect. My mind has been more tranquil, since I knew for certain that I could never be Gilbert Rushmere’s wife.”

“He may see his folly, Dorothy, and return to his first love.”

“My lord, that is impossible. Love is a stream that always flows onward; it never returns to fill the channel that it has deserted and left dry. You might as well try to collect the shower that the thirsty earth drank up yesterday. Love once dead, can never revive again or wear the same aspect that it did at first, for the spirit that kindled it is gone, and what you once adored is only a silent corpse.”

“You are resigned to the loss of your lover?”

“My lord, it is all for the best. Gilbert was the idol to whom I gave the undivided worship of my whole heart. God in his mercy saw fit to dash it in pieces. Let us leave the fragments in the dust, and speak of them no more.”

“So young and so wise,” mused the Earl, regarding his companion with intense interest. “How have you learned to bear so great a sorrow with such heroic fortitude?”

“I employed my hands constantly in useful labour, which kept me from pondering continually over painful thoughts. There is no better remedy for acute sorrow. I have always found it so; it gives strength both to the body and mind. But it was not this alone, my lord, which reconciled me to my grief.” She paused a moment. Lord Wilton waved his hands impatiently.

“Go on, Dorothy, I am listening intently. What was your next step?”

“I sought the advice and assistance of a higher power than my own. I laid my poor broken heart in the dust at His feet, and poured the anguish of my soul before Him. He heard my bitter cry, ‘Save me Lord, for I perish,’ and lifted me out of the deep waters as they closed over me. From that hour, I have clung to Him for help with the same confidence that a little child clings to the bosom of its mother. I know and feel that all He does is right, and that He does not causelessly afflict the children of men.”

“The difficulty is in recognizing that our trials and sufferings are from God,” said the Earl, “God the all merciful. I fear, Dorothy, that I should find your remedy very inefficient when applied to an incurable sorrow.”

“Ah, do try it, my lord,” said Dorothy, with great earnestness. “It may be slow in its operations, but in the end it never fails. There is no sorrow that is incurable, if you will only bring it to the foot of the cross, and lay it down there. It will melt away from your soul, like the mist before the rising sun—and when you contemplate the blessed Saviour in His terrible death agony, and remember that He bore it all for such as you, your sufferings will appear light indeed when compared with His, and you will learn from Him the truth—the glorious truth that will set you free from the bondage of sin and the fear of death. That makes slaves and cowards of us all.”

“Softly, my dear girl. I want the faith to realize all this. Do you speak from your own experience, or only repeat the lessons taught you by Henry Martin?”

“I speak of that which I have known and felt,” said Dorothy, emphatically. “Of that which has taught me to bear patiently a great affliction, that has reconciled me to a hard lot, and brought me nearer to God. I can now bless Him for my past trials. If I had never known trouble, I should never have exchanged it for His easy yoke, or felt a divine peace flowing out of grief.”

“I do not doubt your word, Dorothy. I am a miserable man, overwhelmed with the consciousness of guilt, without the power to repent.”

“Oh, my lord, this cannot be, and you so good and kind. If you are a bad man, where in this world shall we look for a righteous one?”

“My poor child, you know little of the world, and still less of me. You esteem me happy, because I am rich and high-born, deriving from my wealth and position the means of helping others who are destitute of these advantages. There is no real merit in this. I cannot bear to witness physical suffering; and give from my abundance that I may be relieved from the sight of it.”

“But you confer a benefit upon the poor by relieving their necessities, which must be acceptable in the sight of God.”

“I fear not. Infinite wisdom looks deeper into these things than short-sighted men, and the motive which induces the act is of more value in His sight than the mere act. I have more money than I can use, and possess every luxury and comfort that gold can buy. It is no sacrifice to me giving to the poor. I really lose nothing, and my vanity is pleased by the admiration they express at my generosity; I often feel deeply humiliated by the self-approbation induced by these trifling donations.”

“I wish there were more people in the world like your lordship.”

“Dorothy, Dorothy! you see before you a wretched conscience-stricken creature, who would gladly give all that he has in the world for the peace of mind you say that you enjoy. You, like the rest of my neighbours, think me little short of perfection, for to most people the outward and tangible is always the real. But, alas, I know myself better. Listen to me, Dorothy, while I give you a page from my life’s history, which will show your benefactor in a new light.”

Dorothy looked wonderingly up into her companion’s face. His brow was knitted, his lips firmly compressed, and the sorrowful expression of his pale face almost bordered on despair. She shuddered, and tears involuntarily filled her eyes. Was this new idol going to resolve itself into a mere image of clay? If he were no better than other men, where in this world would she find truth? Dorothy was grieved and perplexed, but she walked on in silence till the Earl again spoke.

“I confide more willingly in you, Dorothy, because, like me you have realized the great agony of having loved and lost. Yes, I loved as my own soul a young girl as pure and artless as yourself. She held a dependent and subordinate situation, and was far beneath me in rank. But beauty is a great equalizer, and I never for a moment considered that noble creature my inferior. I sought her love, and won her whole heart, but circumstances prevented me from taking her by the hand, and publicly acknowledging her as my wife to the world, and I sacrificed to the Moloch of wealth and power her happiness and my own, and blasted for ever the only wealth she possessed, a pure and unsullied name.”

“Oh, my lord, how could you do so?”

“Ah! how indeed. I ask myself a thousand times a-day the same torturing question. The fear of what people would say, Dorothy—the dread of poverty—of loss of caste—for I was not at that time an elder son, made me a coward and a fool. I left her—left the woman I adored to struggle through the difficulty in which I had placed her, single-handed and alone.

“I was appointed attaché to a foreign embassy, and left England for several years, and was only recalled to inherit my present title, and all the large property that fell to me by the death of an uncle, and that of my eldest brother. No longer deterred from doing her justice by the base fear of losing these advantages, I sought her in her old home, my mother having dismissed her in disgrace from her service. Here I found that her cruel grandmother had driven her forth into the streets, and all traces of her had been lost. For seventeen years I have sought her sorrowing through the world, to make reparation for my selfishness and cruelty; but her fate remains a mystery, and the only clue that I have obtained of her probable history, fills my mind with shame and remorse. I can no longer wipe this foul stain from her memory if I would.

“You look at me in surprise and horror, Dorothy. Can you still think me a good and great man. See how you have been deceived in your estimate of me.”

Tears were in the Earl’s eyes and on his pale cheeks. Dorothy looked down to hide her own.

“My lord,” she said, in a soft low voice, “you have been very unfortunate, and perhaps are less guilty than you think yourself, and oh, I pity you with my whole heart.”

Involuntarily she took his hand and pressed it to her lips, and he caught her in his arms and clasped her to his heart, his tears falling over her like rain.

“My dear child, my only friend, God bless you for your kind sympathy. Is there any hope for a sinner like me?”

“My lord,” she whispered, “there is more joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance. Receive this great truth into your heart, and you will find the peace you need.” She spoke with such earnestness, that a gleam of hope shot into the sad eyes of the Earl.

“Dorothy, I will think over your words.”

“Pray over them, my lord; we must not only will, but do the thing that is right.”

“Will you pray for me, Dorothy?”

“I have always done so, my lord, since the first hour we met, and you expressed such a kind interest in a poor friendless orphan girl.”

“Look upon me always as a friend—a father, Dorothy; you know not the strong tie that unites my destiny with yours. Perhaps you will know one day, and pity and forgive me for the injury you have received at my hands.”

“My lord, you did your best to serve me. How could you imagine that Gilbert could act as he has done? The blame, if there is any, rests entirely with him. It cannot cancel the vast debt of gratitude I owe to you.”

“You owe me nothing, Dorothy. My earnest desire is to see you good and happy.”

A look of wondering curiosity stole over the young girl’s face. He spoke to her in riddles, but she knew the difference in their respective stations to ask him questions.

He evidently read her thoughts, and suddenly turning the conversation, spoke to her in more cheerful tones. He inquired about her studies, and what progress she had made in them. How she liked the books he had provided for her instruction, and what sort of reading she preferred. She answered with enthusiasm:

“That the books had but one fault, they made the labours of the house and field less agreeable, for she would like to be reading them all day.”

“I expected as much,” said the Earl, with his usual sweet smile. “I wish to give you the means of earning your living in a more refined and useful manner. There are plenty of hands to work in the world that belong to people who have little or no brains in their heads, and such people make the most profitable farm servants. Nature has bestowed upon you a quick intellect, and to labour in the fields is to bury the talents entrusted to your care, in the dust. By the way,” he continued, “Mrs. Martin tells me that you have a fine ear for music, and a powerful melodious voice. It would gratify me highly to hear you sing.”

“Oh, my lord,” said Dorothy, blushing rosy red, “what pleasure could such a voice as mine give a gentleman like you? I only sing to amuse the children, and wile away the time when I am at work.”

“You must leave me to be the best judge of that. If you feel timid, which is but natural, just sit down on this sloping green bank, and consider me a child, while you sing some little simple air.”

Dorothy felt all in a tremor, but he looked so kind that she did not like to refuse, so she did as she was bid, and sat down on the grass at his feet, and with her eyes fixed intently upon the daisies, sang a little ballad very popular in those days, commencing with “Over the mountains and over the moor.”

Her voice, at first tremulous with emotion, soon gained strength, and she sang with a sweetness and pathos that would have drawn down tremendous applause from a public audience. The Earl listened with rapt attention.

“Excellent!” he cried. “Mrs. Martin was right. Here is an admirable talent that must be cultivated. Should you like to learn to play upon the piano?”

Dorothy’s eyes literally shone with delight. “Oh, my lord, it would make me so happy.”

“That is enough. I will order a good instrument from London. It will be your property. Mrs. Martin will give it a place in her house, and when you gain any proficiency, you can repay her kindness by teaching her children. A good pianist can always command a comfortable independence.”

“And who will instruct me?” asked Dorothy.

“That matter is easily settled. You know old Piper, who plays the organ in the church. He has but one idea, and that is music, which absorbs his whole intellect. A fool in almost everything else, he is yet a splendid musician. He will rejoice in such a promising pupil.”

“He is a strange, odd creature,” said Dorothy. “If he is to be my master, it will be hard to keep from laughing. He came one day to Mr. Rushmere, to get him to buy tickets for a concert. Father was making a riddle to separate some large peas from a different sort that were much smaller, that had got accidentally mixed in the granary, and spoiled the sample of both. The old man stood and looked at him for some time, then said so innocently,

“‘Now, sir, can’t you make that ‘ere machine to let out all the large peas, and keep the little ‘uns behind?’

“How father laughed, and told him that his idea was so clever, that he advised him to take out a patent for his invention. He took the joke as a great compliment, and went away rubbing his hands, highly delighted with his mechanical skill.”

“You must try to listen to his wise speeches, Dorothy, with a grave face. Odd as he is, the old man is a great favourite of mine, for he taught me, when I was a lad, to play on the violin, and put up with all my wild tricks with the greatest good humour. One day he requested me to pay more attention to time, as I was apt to trust too much to my ear.

“‘What is time?’ I demanded very pertly, and purposely to quiz him.

“‘Time,’ said he, repeating my words with a look of bewildered astonishment, as if he doubted my sanity. ‘Why, Master Edward, time is time. When a person has played a piece in time, he feels so neat, so clean, and so satisfied with himself.’ I did not attempt to keep my gravity, but ran laughing out of the room.

“Time has not changed the queer old man a bit. The other day I sent him a fine hare: two hours after, I was riding with another nobleman through Storby, when, who should turn the corner of Market Street but old Piper, bearing in his hands a great red earthenware dish, covered in with paste. When he saw me, he stopped just before our horses, and, making me a profound bow, tapped the dish with his hand, calling out in a jocular voice:

“‘Thank you, my lord, for pussie! she is safe here, under cover, and I am now going to dine like a prince.’

“The bystanders laughed. How could they help it; my friend fairly roared, and I felt rather mortified at the old man making such a public demonstration of his gratitude for such a small gift.”

Dorothy enjoyed the anecdote, and laughed too. “I have no doubt we shall get on famously together, for I will set my whole heart to the work.”

The Earl shook her heartily by the hand, and rode off in good spirits. The little episode of the music, and the eccentricities of Dorothy’s future master, had won him from his melancholy. A week had scarcely elapsed before Mrs. Martin brought Dorothy the joyful intelligence that the piano had arrived; that Mr. Piper was tuning it, and had pronounced it a first rate instrument, and the children were all wild with delight.

This was a new epoch in Dorothy’s life. She employed every spare moment in mastering the difficulties of the science, and enchanted old Piper with the attention she gave to his prosaical instructions. “Her face,” he said, “might make a fortune, but her voice was sure to do it. He was no great judge of beauty, had never courted a woman in his life, and was too old to think of it now. But he was a judge of music, and he was pretty sure that she could not fail in that.”

Mr. Rushmere did not approve of this new encroachment on what he considered his natural right in Dorothy; though for some months he was kept in profound ignorance of the turn her studies had taken, and even when he at last made the discovery, he was not aware that Lord Wilton was the delinquent that had robbed him of her time. Lord Wilton had furnished Dorothy with money to pay for the hire of a girl, to take charge of the coarser domestic drudgery; still Lawrence Rushmere grumbled and was not satisfied. He wondered where and how the girl obtained her funds, and whether she came honestly by them. Mrs. Rushmere, who was in the secret—for Dorothy kept nothing from her—told him “that it was part of the salary paid by the Earl to Dorothy for teaching in the Sunday school.” This was the truth; “and that he ought, instead of constantly finding fault with the poor girl, to rejoice in her good fortune. Dorothy was growing more like a lady every day, and was so good and clever that he should consider her a credit to the house.”

“I thought a deal more on her,” quoth the old man, “when she was dressed in homespun and was not above her business. Those silly people are making a fule o’ the girl, turning her head with vanity and conceit. Wife, you can’t make a purse out o’ a sow’s ear, or a real lady out o’ one not born a lady. They are spoiling the girl an’ quite unfitting her for an honest labourer’s wife.”

At this moment the object under dispute came tripping into the room, dressed in a simple muslin gown with a neat coarse straw bonnet tied closely under her soft round chin. Mrs. Rushmere glanced up at the lovely smiling girl, so graceful in all her movements, so artless and winning in her unaffected simplicity, and quite realized her husband’s idea, that she was not fit for a ploughman’s help-mate.

“Well, Doll, lass, what’s up at the parsonage?” cried the farmer. “Your face is all of a glow and brimful of summat.”

“Our old vicar is dead, father; Mr. Martin has just got the news.”

“Bless my soul, Mr. Conyers gone? Why he be a young man to me,” and he pushed his hands through his gray locks. “What did a’ die of, lass?”

“Apoplexy—it was quite sudden. He had just eaten a hearty dinner, when he fell down in a fit, and never spoke again.”

“Ah, them parsons generally die o’ that. They be great yeaters, and the stomach, they do say, affects the head. It seems like putting the cart afore the horse, don’t it, dame?”

“I ran up to tell you,” continued Dorothy, “that Mrs. Martin sends her best compliments to you, father, and would esteem it a great favour if you would allow me to stay all day at the parsonage, to help her prepare rooms for the use of the new vicar, who is going to board with her, and is expected down tonight.”

“Whew,” cried Rushmere, snapping his fingers. “I think Mrs. Martin had better keep you altogether. She’s a clever woman to make use of other people’s servants. I have a great mind to send you back to tell her that I won’t let you go.”

Dorothy was silent. Experience had taught her that it was the best policy never to answer her father in these moods. Left to himself his better nature generally prevailed.

“And who be the new vicar, Dolly?” asked her mother, who seldom failed in getting her adopted child out of these scrapes, by diverting her husband’s attention to another object.

“Mr. Gerard Fitzmorris, a first cousin of my lord’s.”

“I knew his father,” said Rushmere, “when he was raising a regiment here, to fight the rebels in Ireland. He was a bad man. A drunkard an’ a gambler, and got killed in a duel. His wife ran away with another officer. He followed them to France, challenged her seducer, an’ got the worst of it. His death was no loss to the world, or to his family. So, so, this is his son. Poor stuff to make a man o’ God out on’ one would think.”

“Children do not always inherit their parents’ vices,” suggested Mrs. Rushmere.

“It would be bad for the world if they did. But somehow I ha’ found that they often bear a strong family likeness,” muttered the farmer.

“Well, girl, an’ when do the new parson commence his work?”

“He will read himself in next Sunday morning. Mr. Martin says that he is an excellent preacher, and a real Christian. Not one made so by education, and from having been born and brought up in a Christian land, but from conversion, and an earnest desire to be of use in the church.”

“Humph,” said Rushmere, “this is the way they generally cant about every new parson. In a little while, they find out that these converted sinners are no better nor the rest on us, only they think themselves more godly. And you girl, don’t you go to pull long faces and cant like them. It is not by words but by deeds, that a man will be justified at the last.”

“Both would prove insufficient, father,” suggested Dorothy, “without the grace of God. If men could save themselves, our blessed Lord’s death was a useless sacrifice.”

“Oh in course, you know better nor me, Dolly. If you go on at this rate, you’ll be able to teach parson his duty.”

Dorothy laughed, and seeing him once more in a good humour again, put in her plea, of helping Mrs. Martin prepare for her guest. “If not a good act, it would be a neighbourly one,” she said, “I will be back in time father, to get your supper.”

“But don’t let these pious folk spoil you, lass. Dorothy Chance will soon be too great a lady, wi’ her musical nonsense and book larning, to step across father Rushmere’s threshold.”

Dolly ran back and kissed the old man.

“What’s that for, Doll?” and the yeoman laughed and opened his eyes wide.

“For calling yourself my father. You have not spoken of me as your child for so long. I thought you meant to disown me altogether.”

Dorothy looked so sweetly and spoke so pleasantly, that the old man’s anger vanished in her smile.

“Go thy ways, Dolly, thou art a good wench. I love thee well, and thou know’st it. If I be crusty, it’s no new thing to thee, who know’st my nature far better, nor I do mysel’. Like old Pincher, my bark is a great deal worse nor my bite.”

CHAPTER VI.

DOROTHY DOES NOT FALL IN LOVE WITH THE VICAR AT FIRST SIGHT.

Dorothy was not long in retracing her steps to the parsonage. She found Mrs. Martin up to her eyes in business, taking up carpets, shifting furniture, and giving the house a thorough cleaning from top to bottom. The curate, who was generally very helpless on such occasions, and decidedly in everybody’s way during these domestic ordeals, was busy stowing away books and papers out of the reach of mops and brooms.

“Now, Dorothy, which do you think will be the best room to give Mr. Fitzmorris for his study? The one over the parlour that looks to the south, and has such a nice view of Lord Wilton’s plantations, or the east chamber, which has such a fine prospect of the sea? Men are always fond of the sea.”

“It looks bleak and cold over that long dreary stretch of flat salt marshes,” said Dorothy, examining the landscape from both windows with a critical eye. “I think he will prefer the sunny room that looks to the south. I know I should.”

“We can but change it, Dorothy, if it should not be to his taste. But I have thought of another difficulty, which cannot be so easily remedied. What of the piano?” and she turned an anxious eye on Dorothy. “How will he be able to write his sermons with the eternal thumping of the children on the instrument? It will be enough to drive a nervous man from the house.”

“How, indeed?” said Dorothy. “We must move the piano.”

“But where?”

“To the Farm.”

“By no means. You provoking little puss! It is the only handsome piece of furniture in the house.”

“We can place it in the dining-room, and only practice when he is absent on parish business. If he is such a good, kind man as he is represented, he will do all in his power to accommodate the females of the household.”

“We will try that plan. But what about the noise of the children?”

“The children are very quiet, and always do as they are bid. I am sure no reasonable person can find fault with them.”

The women chatted and worked on merrily, and before the church bell tolled six, the south room was arranged entirely to their own satisfaction. The windows were draped in snowy white, the casements shone clear as the air, and tables, and chairs, and book-stands had received an extra polish from the indefatigable hands of Dorothy, and she commenced the arrangement of two large boxes of books that had arrived by the London carrier, in the cases which had been forwarded for their reception.

This last labour of love she performed very slowly, stopping to peep into every volume as she dusted it. The Latin and Greek authors were quickly disposed of, and the huge tomes of divinity scarcely attracted any notice, but some fine works on botany and natural history chained her attention. The plates were so beautiful that, in spite of sundry implied remonstrances from Mrs. Martin, who was fidgetty lest the vicar should arrive before all was completed, she could not resist the temptation of looking at them, and even called in Harry and little Johnnie to share her delight.

“I like the lions best,” said little Johnnie. “I don’t care for that big pussie-cat with the green eyes and the long tail. It looks as if it could scratch,” and he put his fat fingers vigorously down upon the Bengal tiger.

“Yes, and eat you afterwards,” said Harry. “I don’t like lions and tigers. I love these beautiful flowers, they make me think of the angels, they look so pure and lovely, and darling Dorothy loves them too,” and he leaned his head back upon Dorothy’s white arm, and looked earnestly up into her smiling face. Dorothy pressed the little curly head fondly against her breast.

“Harry, we will get Mr. Fitzmorris to tell us all about the pretty flowers; I don’t know our favourites with these hard names. Flowers are among God’s best gifts to man. They have wonderful secrets of their own, and, besides the innocent pleasure they give to every true heart, possess in themselves a remedy for almost every disease. That reminds me that I have yet to fill the china vase for the table. Come and help me, Harry, for your tastes and mine always agree.”

The two happy children, for Dorothy was still a child in heart, ran down into the garden, hand in hand, and soon selected a splendid bouquet of sweet spring blossoms, which Dorothy grouped with artistic taste, and left in the centre of the table. A beautiful object, which put the finishing touch to the exquisitely neat adornments of the small apartment. She did not wait for the arrival of its future occupant, but took her way home through the lonely lane that wound round the heath to the Farm.

“I wonder what sort of a man he is?” said Dorothy, thinking of the new vicar, “whether he be old or young, plain or good-looking. If he resembles the Earl, I cannot fail to like him. Lord Wilton, though getting up in years, is the most interesting and the handsomest man I have ever seen.”

Her speculations were abruptly dispelled, by a large Newfoundland dog brushing past her, and she looked up and blushed to find herself face to face with a strange gentleman, whose clerical dress left no doubts in her mind as to his identity.

The person she was thinking about was before her.

He was a man of middle stature, not stout, but with a strong muscular frame and the unmistakable bearing of a gentleman, who stopping directly in her path, asked in a very unromantic and practical manner, “if he was in the right road that led to the parsonage?”

Dorothy answered with some confusion, as if she suspected that the stranger had read her thoughts.

“That the next turn in the lane would bring him in sight of the house.”

With a brief “Thank you,” Mr. Fitzmorris raised his hat, and passed on.

Dorothy was dreadfully disappointed. Was this the man for whom she had arranged that beautiful vase of flowers? Judging from appearances, he would be more likely to throw them out of the window as a nuisance, than see anything to admire in them. What a different person he was to the picture she had drawn of him in her mind! He did not resemble the Earl in the least. He was not handsome. His features were strongly marked and even stern for his age, for he could not have counted more than thirty years, if indeed he were as old.

His complexion was coldly fair, the blue tints predominating over the red, which gave a general pallor to his face not at all relieved by the flaxen hair that curled in short masses round his ample forehead. His eyebrows of the same colour, were strongly defined and rather bushy, beneath which flashed out glances of keen intelligence, from a pair of large eyes, vividly blue—they were remarkable eyes, which seemed to look you through at a glance, and which once seen, could not easily be forgotten.

He took no particular notice of Dorothy, and scarcely waited for her answer to his abrupt inquiry.

“I don’t think I shall like him at all,” said Dorothy, her natural vanity rather piqued by his nonchalance. “He looks clever, but proud and stern. A poor substitute, I fear, for our dear Henry Martin, with his large heart and gentle benevolence. Mr. Fitzmorris looks as if he could fight with other weapons than the sword of the spirit,” and Dorothy closed the farm gate very emphatically behind her.

“Well, Dorothy, what of our new vicar?” asked Mrs. Rushmere, like most old folks eager for the news. “Have you seen him?”

“Yes,” replied Dorothy, with a tone of great indifference.

“And what is he like?”

“No one I have ever seen.”

“Is he handsome?”

“Decidedly not.”

“Is he clever?”

“He looks intelligent, but I can’t tell, I only saw him for a moment. He stopped me in the lane to inquire his way to the parsonage; I should scarcely know him again.”

Dorothy tripped off to her own chamber, to avoid further questions, and to take off her muslin dress, and substitute a more homely garb in which to cook Mr. Rushmere’s supper.

The next morning was the day for receiving her music lesson. Dorothy felt very much disinclined to walk to the parsonage to take it; though she knew that old Piper would be raging mad at her want of punctuality. She had no wish to encounter Mr. Fitzmorris, or meet again the keen glance of his wonderful eyes. It was evident that he considered her a very inferior person, and Dorothy’s pride had progressed with her education, and she began to feel that she was not undeserving of a certain degree of respect from persons who might happen to move in a higher class than her own.

Not being able to frame a plausible excuse for her absence from the cottage, she was compelled to put on her bonnet, and dare the ordeal she so much dreaded.

It was a lovely morning in the middle of May, and she gathered some branches of hawthorn in full blossom for the children as she went along.

On coming up to the small white gate, that opened into the lawn fronting the parsonage, she saw Mr. Fitzmorris seated on the grass, under the shade of the tall bowering sycamore tree that grew in the centre of it, with all the little ones gathered about him, laughing and romping with them to their hearts’ content, his laugh as loud, and his voice as merry and joyous as the rest.

Could this be the cold, proud looking man she met in the lane last night? His hat lay tossed at a distance upon the grass, the noble head was bare, and wee Mary was sticking bluebells and cowslips among the fair curls that clustered over it. A glow was on the pale face, and the eyes sparkled and danced with pleasure.

“Dorothy! Dorothy!” screamed all the little voices at once. “Here comes our dear Dorothy! Do come and play with us under the tree.”

Dorothy smiled and shook her head at them, and almost ran into the house.

“And who is your dear Dorothy, Harry?” asked Mr. Fitzmorris, looking after the pretty apparition as it vanished.

“Oh, she’s such a darling, next to papa and mamma, I love her better than anything in the world,” said Harry with enthusiasm, “and I know she loves me.”

“I’m sure, Harry, we all love her as much as you do,” said Rosina. “But you always want to keep Dolly all to yourself. She does not love you a bit more than she does me and Johnnie.”

“That she don’t,” cried Johnnie. “She loves me more than you all, for I sit on her lap while she tells us pretty stories, and Harry’s too old to do that.”

“I should rather think so,” said Mr. Fitzmorris, laughing and looking at Harry, a tall boy of nine years. “I think Johnnie’s plea is the best. At any rate, he contrives to get nearest to the young lady’s heart. But why are you all so fond of her? Do you love her for her pretty face?”

“Not for that alone,” returned Harry. “But she is so kind, she never says or does a cross thing, and always tries to make us happy.”

“Then she deserves all the love you can give her. It is a blessed thing to try and make others happy.”

Just at that moment the grand notes of the old hundredth floated forth upon the breeze, and became a living harmony, accompanied by Dorothy’s delicious voice. Mr. Fitzmorris rose to his feet, and stood with uncovered head: the smile that had recently played upon his lips giving place to an expression of rapt devotion, as if his whole heart and soul were wafted towards heaven in those notes of praise.

“It is Dorothy who is singing. She sings in our choir,” said Harry.

“Hush,” returned the vicar, placing his finger on his lip. “We are ‘before Jehovah’s awful throne.’ Wherever you hear that name mentioned, you are upon holy ground.”

The boy drew back awe-struck, and for the first time in his young life, realized the eternal presence of God in the universe.

After Dorothy’s lessons were over, Mr. Fitzmorris asked Mrs. Martin to introduce him to her young friend.

“I hope you are not vain of that fine voice?” he said, taking a seat beside her.

“Why should I be? I can hardly call it mine, for I had no choice in the matter. It was a free gift.”

Mr. Fitzmorris regarded the youthful speaker with a look of surprise. For the first time it struck him forcibly that her face was very beautiful, while its earnest, truthful expression conveyed the more pleasing impression that it was one of great integrity.

“A free gift,” he said, repeating unconsciously her words. “To be used freely, I hope, in the service of the glorious Giver, and not as a means of obtaining the applause and admiration of the world?”

“Not very likely, sir. My world is confined to a small sphere. It was only the other day that I found out that I had a voice worthy of being used in the choir. I used to sing to please my father, and to lighten my labour when at work in the field.”

“At work in the field!” and Mr. Fitzmorris glanced at the elegant form and taper fingers. “What business had you working in the fields?”

“I am poor and dependent,” said Dorothy, laughing, though she felt a great awe of her interrogator; “and the children of poverty are seldom allowed the privilege of choosing their own employments.”

“But your appearance, Miss Chance, your language, even the manner of your singing, seems to contradict the humbleness of your origin.”

“What I have said is true,” returned Dorothy. “I should be sorry if you thought me capable of misrepresentation.”

“You must not be so quick to take offence where none is meant,” said Mr. Fitzmorris, quietly, as Dorothy, who felt rather wounded, rose to go. “Sit down, my good little girl, and listen to reason.”

Dorothy thought that he had no right to question her so closely; he seemed to read her thoughts, and she neither resumed her seat nor spoke.

“You think me very impertinent, Miss Chance. You forget that, as your future pastor, I feel no small interest in your welfare; that the care of souls is my special business; that it is nothing to me whether you be poor or rich—all are alike in the eyes of Him I serve, whose eternal image is impressed, irrespective of rank or wealth, as strongly upon the soul of the peasant as upon that of the prince. Those alone are poor in whom sin has obliterated this Divine likeness. If you are rich in the Master’s love, you are doubly so in my eyes, for I love all those who love the Lord Jesus with sincerity.”

The smile that now lighted up the pale, stern features of the young vicar, made them almost beautiful. Dorothy felt the power of that calm, noble face, and reproached herself for the unjust prejudices she had entertained for him.

“I have spoken very foolishly,” she said, and the tears came to her eyes. “Will you, sir, forgive my presumption?”

“I have nothing to forgive,” and he looked amused.

“Oh, yes, you have. When I first saw you I thought you looked cold and proud, and acting upon that supposition, I was determined not to like you. This, you know, was very wrong.”

“Not so wrong after all. You are a good physiognomist, Miss Chance. I was once all that you imagined me to be, and it takes a long while to obliterate the expression which the mind stamps upon the countenance in our early years. What made you alter your opinion so quickly?”

“A light which passed over your face, which I believe can only come from Heaven.”

“I wish you may be a true prophet, Miss Chance.”

“Oh, sir, don’t call me by that ugly name. Let it be plain Dorothy.”

“Well then, Dorothy, now there is peace between us, sit down and tell me who first discovered that you had a fine voice.”

“Lord Wilton.”

“Lord Wilton!” Mr. Fitzmorris almost started to his feet.

“He met me one day upon the heath, and told me that he had learned from Mrs. Martin that I had a good voice, and asked me to sing to him.”

“And you complied with the request?”

“Certainly.”

“Don’t you think that it was a strange request for a nobleman to make to a poor country girl? Do you know, Dorothy, what Lord Wilton is?”

“Yes, Mr. Fitzmorris, the best friend I ever had in the world.”

“Dorothy, the friendship of such men is enmity to God. Lord Wilton is a man of the world. A man without religion, who is haunted continually by the stings of conscience. Such a man rarely seeks the acquaintance of a young girl beneath him in rank, for any good purpose.”

“Ah, you wrong him! indeed you do,” cried Dorothy. “He wishes me to be good and happy, and to look upon him as a friend and father; and I love him as such. He placed me under Mrs. Martin’s care, that I might be instructed to help her in the Sunday-school. Would a bad man have done that? For Mrs. Martin and her husband are among the excellent of the earth!”

“A great change must have come over him. When I last saw him, but that is some years ago, he was all that I have represented him.”

Mr. Fitzmorris walked to the window, and stood with folded arms, apparently in deep thought.

There had never been much intimacy between his branch of the family and Lord Wilton’s, though they were first cousins. Their mutual uncle had left an immense fortune to the Earl, which Gerard’s father thought should have been equally divided. He did not consider that he had been fairly treated in the matter, and accused the Earl of having undermined him in the good graces of the titled millionaire.

These family quarrels are very bitter, and their pernicious effects are often traceable through several generations.

It was not of this great family disappointment that General Fitzmorris was thinking, for he was very indifferent about wealth, only regarding it as a useful means of doing good. He was mentally glancing over several passages in the Earl’s life, in which his conduct had been severely censured by the public, when the seduction and subsequent suicide of a beautiful girl adopted by his mother, had formed the theme of every tongue.

And who was this beautiful country girl, this Dorothy Chance, that he should take such an interest in her education. He was afraid the old leaven was again at work, and he was determined, if possible, to frustrate his designs.

“Is your father one of my parishioners, Dorothy?” he said, again addressing her.

“Yes, sir, my adopted father.”

“Are you an orphan?”

“My mother is dead. My father, I never knew; I don’t know whether he be living or dead. But please, sir, don’t ask me anything about it. Mrs. Martin can tell you my strange history. I did not mind hearing about it once, but now it gives me great pain.”

“I should be sorry to distress you, Dorothy,” he said, coming over to where she was standing, her hand resting on the piano.

“I wish to be your friend.”

“I believe you, Mr. Fitzmorris, but I cannot be your friend, if you speak ill of Lord Wilton.”

“I will only speak of him as he deserves. If he is a regenerated man, I shall rejoice to give him the right hand of fellowship. And now, good morning, Dorothy, I have much to do before the duties of the Sabbath. I shall see you again shortly.”

Mr. Fitzmorris left the room, and Dorothy returned to the farm.

On her way thither, she pondered much on what had passed between her and Mr. Fitzmorris. His conversation had filled her mind with a thousand painful doubts and fears. Could there really be any impropriety in her intimacy with Lord Wilton? and was it possible that he could be such a person as Mr. Fitzmorris described? Then she recalled the Earl’s own confession. The fearful manner in which he had accused himself of crimes committed in his youth against some one, whom he had loved and injured, and robbed of her fair name. But he had not spoken of her as his wife, but as one whom he had been ashamed to own, and had deserted and left to perish.

This was cruel and cowardly to say the least of it, but she, Dorothy, had pitied him so much, had mingled her tears with his, and actually wept in his arms.

Dorothy was frightened at having allowed her sympathy to carry her so far. She had acted foolishly; she saw, when it was too late, the imprudence of such conduct. If any one had passed them at the time, Miss Watling, for instance, what a story she would have had to tell. Her character would have been lost for ever. Was not this fancied illustration of her indiscretion more conclusive than any argument that Mr. Fitzmorris had used?

She felt miserably uncomfortable and ill at ease. In vain she repeated St. Paul’s words, “To the pure, all things are pure.” There was another text that seemed to answer that, “Avoid all appearance of evil.” And would not malicious people raise an evil report about her, if they saw her frequently walking and talking with a man so far above her in rank as Lord Wilton?

Dorothy had boundless faith in the purity of his motives, in the sincerity of his friendship for her. But would the gossips of Hadstone see him with her eyes, or judge him with her heart? Alas, no. Dorothy shuddered at the danger which threatened her. But how could she avoid it. Could she tell Lord Wilton that she would lose her character if she was seen speaking to him? Would it not be base ingratitude to her noble benefactor? No. She would let things take their course. She was certain that his intentions were good and honourable, that it would all come right at last. She wished that she had never seen Mr. Fitzmorris. He had made her unhappy, and she had yet to learn that he was a better man than the Earl.

CHAPTER VII.

MR. FITZMORRIS.

The next morning the parish church was thronged to overflowing, to hear Mr. Fitzmorris go through the ceremony of reading himself into the office of vicar. This he did in an earnest and impressive manner, as one deeply conscious of the responsible situation he had been called to fill. He read the articles of the church in a clear, calm natural voice, without the least tinge of affectation or display.

In the sermon that followed, he addressed his congregation, with the affectionate earnestness of a brother anxious to guide them into the paths of righteousness and peace. “He’ll do. That he will,” said old Rushmere to Joe Barford, as they left the church together. “He talks like a sensible man and a Christian. I shan’t begrudge paying the small tythes to the like o’ him.”

“Well neebor, I thinks a mighty deal more o’ measter Martin,” responded Joe. “I doon’t take to these big folks a’ doon’t. It doon’t seem nataral to me for lords and jukes to go up into a pulpit, an’ hold forth to the loikes o’ us.”

“He’s neither lord nor duke. Though his mother was a yearl’s darter an’ a bad one she wor. It’s one o’ God’s mysteries, how such wicked parents can have good children.”

“He mayn’t be as good as a’ looks,” quoth Joe. “I’ll give yer my ‘pinion on him twelve month hence.”

Joe was a bit of a democrat, and having lost caste himself, was very bitter against every one who held a higher position.

Miss Watling was determined to patronize the new vicar. He was not bad looking, and a bachelor. To be sure he was a younger brother and not over gifted with the mammon of unrighteousness; but on this latter clause, she based the hope that he might be on the look out for a rich wife, and it was just possible, that his choice might fall upon her. She loitered in the porch gossipping with a friend until he left the church, and then said loud enough for him to hear,

“I call him a divine young man.”

Gerard Fitzmorris passed out, without the least idea that he was the hero of this fine speech. His mind was so occupied with other thoughts, that he neither heard nor saw the speaker. Letty Barford did not like the new parson at all.

“He was tew stiff,” she said, “and wanted to introduce new fashions into the church. He troubled himself, tew much about people’s souls as if they did not know how to take care of them without consulting him. If he came talking to her about her sins, she wu’d just tell him to mind his own business, and leave her to go to heaven, or t’other place, her own way.”

Dorothy listened to all these remarks in silence. The eloquent discourse she had just heard had made a deep impression on her mind. She thought a great deal more of Mr. Fitzmorris since she had heard him in the pulpit, and felt convinced, in spite of her former prejudice, that he was a man of God.

She wished that Lord Wilton had heard him preach, and tell the story of his own conversion with such humble earnestness. It had affected her to tears, and she could not sufficiently admire a man of his rank and education unveiling the struggles of his own heart, that his fellow men might be benefitted by the confession.

Lord Wilton was in London; he had been called away suddenly to meet his son who had left the army on the sick list, and was reported by the surgeon of the regiment as being far gone in consumption.

“It will be a dreadful blow to the Earl, if he should lose his son,” said Mr. Martin, as he walked home from church with the vicar. “In such case who would be the heir?”

“My brother Francis.”

“And where is he at present?”

“That would be a difficult question to answer. Here and there and everywhere. Like most young men of the world, where ever pleasure or love of excitement leads him. Should this title fall to him, I fear it would be the very worst thing that could happen to him.”

“That does not necessarily follow.”

“My dear friend, an increase of wealth to men of very dissipated habits, seldom leads to improvement. It only gives them a greater opportunity of being wicked. I would much rather the Earl married again.”

“That is not at all likely. He seems to have outlived all human passion. His hopes and affections are entirely centred in this son.”

“How dreadful is the rending asunder of ties that bind us closely to the earth,” said Mr. Fitzmorris. “I speak from painful experience—but it must be done to bring us to God with whole and undivided hearts. It is only through much suffering, mental or physical, but generally both combined, that men come to a knowledge of their own weakness, and the all-sufficiency of Christ, to satisfy the cravings of the soul, for a higher and more perfect state of existence.”

“By the hints you threw out in your sermon, Mr. Fitzmorris, I was led to imagine that your own conversion had been brought about by some heavy affliction.”

“Yes, I have felt the deep anguish of offering up a bleeding heart upon the altar of duty. But oh, how great has been my reward! what joy and peace has arisen out of the very sorrow that was at first so overwhelming. What a blessed light sprang out of that dense darkness, when the Holy Spirit first illumined, with irresistible splendour, the black gulf of despair in which my soul lay grovelling. Though keenly conscious of my lost state, I was totally unable to express my wants and desires in prayer.

“A humble instrument was sent to aid me in that terrible conflict. A rude, uneducated man, but a sincere Christian, who had recently entered my service, and who watched by my sick bed when all my friends forsook me for fear of infection. He it was who opened up to me the sublime truths of the Gospel, and taught me to pray.

“To me, he became more than a friend or brother, my father in Christ. I loved him as only a son new-born to life could love such a benefactor. When I recovered from that terrible fever, he took it and died.

“Oh, what a triumph was that death! How serenely he rendered up his simple soul to his Creator, and entered the dark river with a smile upon his lips, and the light of Heaven upon his brow. Whenever my faith grows weak, I think of Harley’s death-bed, and become as strong as a lion ready to battle for the truth against a whole world combined.”

“You are no bigot either, Fitzmorris.”

“I abhor it in any shape. Religion was meant to make men happy, not gloomy, morose, and censorious, condemning others because they cannot think as we think, or see any particular advantages in the forms and ceremonies that we deem essential. It is only in modes of worship that real Christians differ. I always endeavour to look beyond the outward and material, to the inward and spiritual.”

Henry Martin was very much of the same way of thinking, but he was not such an enthusiast as Gerald Fitzmorris, and, perhaps, lacked the mental courage to avow it.

For some weeks, Mr. Fitzmorris was so much engaged in going round the two parishes of Hadstone and Storby, for he had been inducted into both, and getting acquainted with the church members, that Dorothy could go and practice her lessons without any fear of meeting him.

Storby, being a sea-port town containing several thousand inhabitants, offered a larger field of usefulness, and the Hadstone folk were left almost entirely to the care of Henry Martin, Mr. Fitzmorris occasionally preaching and inspecting the Sunday school.

There was no evening service at Hadstone, and the distance to Storby being within the compass of a pleasant walk, the Martins and Dorothy generally walked over to listen to the vicar’s eloquent preaching.

Every day he grew in their affection and esteem; he was so kind and cheerful, so amiable to the children, and so contented with Mrs. Martin’s humble arrangements for his comfort, that she often told Dorothy that he was a “treasure of a man.”

He was generally up for a morning walk by five o’clock, when he never failed to call the children, telling them to come with him to the fields and learn wisdom.

Dorothy had several times joined the party, and been a delighted listener to his lessons in natural history. He never failed to lead their minds upward from the contemplation of the works of the Creator, to the Creator himself, making religion a beautiful, holy, and practical thing.

“The Lord’s kingdom is a world of wonders,” he said; “the more we study nature, the greater He becomes in our eyes, the more insignificant we seem in our own. Look around you, dear children. The Heavens declare the glory of God. David learned that sublime lesson ages ago. The seasons and their changes present a constant succession of miracles to those who study them with the eye of faith. On every side we are encompassed by a cloud of witnesses to testify of the Divine love, the inexhaustible contrivance, and the infinite wisdom of the Deity.

“Look at this exquisite little flower, its tiny petals so minute that a rude touch would blot them out of existence; yet examine them in this microscope, and behold how perfect they are—‘that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’”

“But some things are very ugly,” said Harry. “I hate snakes and toads.”

“Both, though repulsive in our eyes, are not without their beauty. The toad has a sparkling eye, and the snake is graceful in his movements. The swiftness and agility with which he glides over the ground, presents a wonderful illustration of the mechanical skill of the great Contriver.”

“Oh,” said Dorothy, “there is no pleasure to me so great as observing the works of God in his creation.”

“You are right, Dorothy, to encourage such sentiments. The love of nature is a sinless enjoyment, in which angels share. Nature is a material embodiment of divine truth, and if studied rightly, brings the mind into communion with the great Father, whose Spirit lives through all. Yea, even inanimate substances, or those which we consider as such, obey His commands and work out His will. This, to our finite comprehension, is unintelligible, but nothing is without its significance to Him whose Spirit exists in every atom that His wisdom has called into being.

“Despise not the lowest forms of life, for His power is shown as fully in the smallest insect, as in the lordly being who bears His image, and calls himself man.

“Can you look at anything, however mean, as made in vain, when it required the mind of a God to give it a place in His universe?

“Oh that man could comprehend the perfect unity that exists between God and His works. From the least to the greatest, if one among them had not been necessary, it would never have been formed, for the Creator does nothing in vain. There is no waste in the Divine economy. He gathers up the fragments so that nothing is lost, but renews them in other forms to suit His own purpose. Thus the chain of existence runs on through the long ages of eternity, and not one link is broken, though the law of change operates on all.”

“Now, Harry, you must not abuse toads and snakes any more,” said Rosina, “for they are as much God’s creatures as we are, and I hate to see you kill them, when they are not doing you any harm.”

“Well said, little Rosey,” and Mr. Fitzmorris patted her curly head. “‘Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.’ Cultivate purity of heart, and universal benevolence, which are very acceptable in the sight of the good Father. And that reminds me, dear children, that I have work of another sort to do, and must not loiter away the precious time among the green grass and the sunbeams any longer.”

“The day is so pleasant—everything looks so lovely,” said Dorothy, “I agree with the poet, ‘Methinks it is good to be here.’”

Reluctantly they all rose from the green hill-side to return to the parsonage. Rosey and Johnnie, as the youngest of the party, claiming the right to walk with Mr. Fitzmorris. Dearly the children loved him, for he taught them with a gentle authority, which, while it inspired awe, greatly increased their affection. “You are a great friend to the working classes, Mr. Fitzmorris,” said Dorothy, as they walked over the heath.

Dorothy loved to hear him talk, and wanted to engage him in conversation.

“Our blessed Master was one of them,” he said cheerfully. “They are peculiarly His people, for like the birds of the air, they live under His especial providence, and are generally more thankful recipients of His bounty than the rich. I despise the man, be his rank in life what it may, who is ashamed of honest labour. Industry is a healthful recreation both for the body and mind, and is the genuine parent of honesty. Our good Hannah More has said, that ‘cleanliness is next to godliness,’ but poor people must be industrious before they can afford to be clean. The three united form a beautiful harmony.”

“I suppose that that is the reason, Mr. Fitzmorris, that you work so much in the garden, and in papa’s potato field, instead of going out visiting like other folks?”

Mr. Fitzmorris laughed heartily.

“I enjoy a little healthy work for its own sake, Harry, when it does not take me away from necessary duties. I have seed to sow, and visits to make that you wot not of. A wise man has said, and I fully endorse the sentiment, that ‘The Lord’s kingdom is a kingdom of uses.’ ‘My Father works hitherto, and I work,’ said the blessed Master. If duty calls you to work, work as he worked—not merely for your own advantage, but for the benefit of others. While labouring at any profitable employment, never forget the poor and destitute, whose wants may be alleviated by your diligence.”

“I wish you would teach me, Mr. Fitzmorris,” said Dorothy, “how to work less for myself and more for my fellow creatures. It must be a blessed thing, when it makes you so happy.”

“I have my sorrows, too, Dorothy,” he said, with a sigh. “But they are of a less personal nature than they were formerly. I grieve for those near and dear to me that cannot understand the peace and freedom that I have found; that will not believe that the religion of Jesus enlarges the heart, till it could encircle the world in its wide embrace. To those whose eyes have been miraculously opened to the light of truth, the condition of the wilfully blind is sad indeed.”

The cheek lately flushed with exercise, was very pale now, and the wonderful eyes moist with tears, and he walked some paces quickly in advance of his companion, then turning back, he said in his usual kind, but rather abrupt manner:

“Dorothy, if you wish to take a lesson from me, and see how I work, come to-morrow afternoon at four o’clock, and I will show you a new method of employing your time.” They were now opposite the curate’s garden, and Dorothy turned up the lane and retraced her steps to the farm.

Exactly as the clock struck four, she rapped at Mr. Fitzmorris’ study door. He was ready to receive her, his hat and gloves lay on the table beside him, and a small carpet-bag lying on the floor. He closed the book he was reading, and rose to meet her.

“I am glad to see you so punctual, Dorothy; it is a valuable quality. I hate to wait for any one, and still more, that any one should wait for me. You remember that awful parable of the five foolish virgins. I never read it without a secret fear, lest death should find me with no oil in my lamp. But we will talk as we go along, if you are not afraid of trusting yourself with me?”

“Mr. Fitzmorris, how can you imagine such a thing?” and Dorothy looked up in his face as if to reproach him for her supposed want of faith.

“I should not blame you a bit, Dorothy Chance, after the long lecture I read you about your imprudence in meeting Lord Wilton alone on the heath. You must think me a great hypocrite for taking you out alone with me. But Mrs. Martin has made me acquainted with your history, and I respect you for defending the character of the man who has, indeed, proved himself to you, a sincere friend, who from Henry Martin’s account of him, I trust is slowly, though surely, striving to enter the straight gate that leads to heaven.”

“Oh, Mr. Fitzmorris, you are so good and truthful, it is impossible to be angry with you long; and I was angry with you for speaking so harshly of poor Lord Wilton, but I love you all the better now, for confessing so frankly that you were in error.” She held out her hand as she spoke. Gerard took it, and pressed it reverentially.

“We are friends then?”

“Yes. I hope for ever.”

“Amen!” said her companion heartily; “and now, little one, no more sentimentality, but let us go to work.”

Shouldering the carpet-bag across his stick, the vicar led the way over the lawn, and on to the heath.

“Where are we going?” asked Dorothy, not a little amused at the decided manner in which her companion took to the road.

“Do you know a place called Hog Lane, at the bottom of the heath, on the east side, where it slopes down to the salt flats?”

“Yes, I have been there looking for the cows with Gilbert.”

“And who is Gilbert?”

Mr. Fitzmorris suddenly faced about. He was walking still ahead, and cast such a sharp penetrating glance at Dorothy, that she felt her face crimson, and her knees tremble with agitation.

“Is he your brother, or your sweetheart?”

“Neither, Mr. Fitzmorris. He is the son of the kind people who brought me up.”

“And you never took a fancy to each other. Eh, Dorothy?”

“Oh, yes, we did,” returned Dorothy, with great simplicity. “But that is all off now, and he is going to marry somebody else. I did love him with my whole heart and soul, and it caused me the greatest anguish of mind I ever experienced, to try and forget him. It’s all for the best, Mr. Fitzmorris, but it was hard to realize the dreadful truth that he had ceased to love me.”

She turned aside to hide her tears.

Gerard was shocked that his careless speech had given her so much pain, for of this part of her history Mrs. Martin had not spoken. Perhaps she was afraid by so doing that she might lessen the interest which she perceived that Mr. Fitzmorris felt in Dorothy.

“Forgive me, Dorothy, I spoke at random. How little we understand the might of words, their power of conferring pleasure, or giving intense pain. Do dry these tears; the sight of them quite unmans me. By-and-by, when we are better friends, you will tell me all about it, and we can sympathize with each other.”

“And you have known that great heart sorrow?” sobbed Dorothy.

“In its deepest, fullest sense, Dorothy Chance. But the loss of my earthly love gave birth to one of a higher and nobler character—the love of Christ—which has made me happy, indeed. May the same blessed balm, my poor girl, be poured into your wounds.”

“They are closing,” returned Dorothy. “It is only now and then, when some casual observation brings it to my mind, that they open afresh.”

“Oh, the might of words,” again sighed her companion. “But let us banish all such melancholy reminiscences. See, yonder is the entrance to Hog Lane, a very dirty unromantic spot;” and he pointed out the location with his stick. A row of low dilapidated cottages, fronting the marsh.

“Who owns this property?”

“It belongs to Miss Watling. The people who live in these hovels are her tenants.”

“It well deserves the name of Hog Lane. I must have some talk with that woman, and try and persuade her to repair the houses. They are not fit habitations for pigs.”

“She is so fond of money, you will scarcely get her to do anything to make them more comfortable,” said Dorothy.

“Well, if she steadily refuses, I must do something to them myself. The house just before us, and to which we are going, has such a broken roof, that the rain falls upon my poor dying old friend, as he lies in his bed. I will call upon her, and take her out to see him, which cannot fail to win her compassion.”

Mr. Fitzmorris rapped at the half-open door of the first house in the row. A feeble voice bade him “come in,” and Dorothy followed her conductor into a small dark room, dimly lighted by a few broken panes of glass.

An old man was lying on a flock bed that stood in a corner of the room, beside which a little girl was seated knitting. The furniture of the room consisted of the aforesaid bed, a ricketty table and the three-legged stool which the small individual occupied. Various discoloured pieces of crockery, and a few old cooking utensils were ranged on a worm-eaten shelf. The old man’s face wore an expression of patient endurance. It was much wasted and deadly pale. His dim eyes brightened, however, as Mr. Fitzmorris approached his bed. “Well, my dear old friend,” he said, in his deep tender voice, and taking one of the thin hands that lay upon the ragged patchwork coverlid, in his own. “How is the Lord dealing with you to-day?”

“Graciously,” was the gentle reply. “I have not suffered such acute pain in my limbs, and my mind has had a season of rest. I feel nearer to Him, and my heart is refreshed and comforted. I know that the Lord is good, ‘that His mercy endureth for ever,’ thanks be to your reverence, for the care you have taken of my soul. If you had not been sent to me like a good angel, I should have died in my sins, and never come to a knowledge of the truth.”

“Ah, you will forget all the bodily suffering when the glorious day of your release comes, you will then own with trembling joy, that it was good for you to have been thus afflicted. But where is Rachel, Jones?” he continued, looking round the room. “In your helpless state, you cannot well be left alone.”

“Please, sir, mother is gone to Storby to buy bread,” said the little girl. “She left me to take care of neighbour Francis, during her absence.”

“How long has she been away?”

“Since the morning.”

“And my poor old friend has not been turned in his bed all day?”

“Ah, it’s very weary lying in the one position for so many hours,” sighed the paralyzed man. “But I have borne it as patiently as I could.”

Stepping up to the bed, Mr. Fitzmorris raised the sufferer in his strong arms, adjusted his pillows comfortably, and turned him gently on his side, with his face to the open door, that he might be refreshed with a view of the country beyond. Then taking a little flask from his carpet-bag, he gave him a glass of wine, and handing another bottle to Dorothy, he told her to go into the next house, and warm the broth it contained at Martha Brown’s fire. When Dorothy returned with a bowl of rich broth, she found the vicar sitting on the bed, reading to the old man from a small pocket Bible. The rapt look of devotion in the sick man’s face, and the heavenly expression which played like a glory round the calm brow of the vicar would have made a study for a painter.

Dorothy paused in the doorway to contemplate it. To her it was a living picture of beauty—and when, after the chapter was concluded, and in his sweet solemn manner, Mr. Fitzmorris said, “Let us pray,” she knelt down by the humble bed, and upon the broken floor, and prayed with all her heart.

What a simple touching prayer it was that flowed from those gracious lips; it seemed to embody the spiritual wants of all present—but when, on rising from his knees, Mr. Fitzmorris proceeded to feed the old man, who was utterly incapable of helping himself, she could not restrain her tears.

“Oh, let me do that,” she said.

He answered her with his quiet smile.

“Not to-day, Dorothy. To me it is a blessed privilege to administer to the wants of a suffering servant of Christ. When you have experienced the happiness it imparts, you will go and do likewise.”

On leaving the impotent man, he paid a visit to the three other dwellings, which were all comprised under the one roof.

To Martha Brown, a widow with six young children, he gave a Bible and a tract. For she had been a mechanic’s wife, had seen better days, and could read and write. After speaking words of comfort and cheering, he slipped into her hand money to buy shoes, and a new suit for her eldest boy, whom he had recommended into a gentleman’s service, but the lad wanted decent clothing before he could accept the offer. This the good Samaritan generously supplied. “The Lord bless you, sir,” said the woman, putting her apron to her eyes. “I hope Jim will never disgrace the good character your reverence has given him.”

Rachel Jones, the occupant of the third cottage, a farm labourer’s wife, was out. She was regularly paid by Mr. Fitzmorris for attending upon Thomas Francis, whom his benevolence had saved from the workhouse—a fate which the poor old man greatly dreaded.

The last cabin they entered was more dirty and dilapidated than the three other dwellings; its tenant, a poor shoemaker, who patched and resoled the coarse highlows used by the farm servants. He was a middle-aged man, with a large, half-grown-up family of squalid, bare-footed, rude girls and boys. His wife had been dead for several years, and his mother, an aged crone, bent double with the rheumatism, though unable to leave her chair, ruled the whole family with her venomous tongue. “She is a very uninteresting person,” said Mr. Fitzmorris, in a whisper to Dorothy, as he rapped at the door, “but the poor creature has a soul to be saved, and the greater her need, the more imperative the duty to attempt her conversion.”

Before the least movement was made to admit the visitors, a shrill, harsh voice screamed out,

“Ben! Who be that at the door?”

“New parson, and Farmer Rushmere’s gal.”

“And why don’t you open the door?”

“‘Cos I don’t want to. I’d rather they went away.”

“Open the door immediately,” screamed the old beldame, “or I’ll strip the skin off you.”

“When you can get at me,” laughed the insolent lad. “Why don’t you hobble up and open the door yoursel’?”

Mr. Fitzmorris put an end to this disgraceful colloquy, by walking into the house. The shoemaker was absent; no one but the old crone and her grandson, a young, surly-looking ruffian of fourteen, was at home.

“Well, Mrs. Bell, how are you this afternoon?”

“Oh, just the same. Aches and pains—aches and pains. Now in my arm—now in my leg—then again in every bone in my body. What a thing it is to be old and poor, and surrounded by a lot of young wretches, who laugh at your sufferings, and do all they can to worry and vex you.”

“You draw a poor picture of domestic comfort,” said Mr. Fitzmorris, sitting down beside her. “But why do you suffer your grandchildren to behave in this undutiful manner?”

“Lauk-a-mercy, sir, how can I help it?”

“Are you kind to them?”

“No,” said the boy. “Granny’s never kind. She scolds, and rates, and swears at us from morn till night, and then she’s riled if we swears agin.”

“You hear what your grandson says, Mrs. Bell. Is his accusation true?”

“It be none of your business, whether or no,” returned the woman, with a scowl.

“Ah, but it is my business. God sent me here to convert sinners, and without you listen to the message of mercy he sends to you through me, I fear, at your advanced age, that you will find yourself in a very bad way. How old are you?”

“Eighty-four.”

“So old, and no nearer heaven. Why, my poor old friend, you have no reasonable expectation to live one day beyond another.”

“I shan’t die the sooner for your saying so.”

“Nor live one day the longer—both casualties are in the hands of God. Do you ever pray?”

“I never was taught a prayer.”

“Shall I pray with you?”

“Just as you please.”

“Well, I do please. But first listen for a few minutes to the Word of God.”

He read several of those remarkable invitations to sinners, which few can hear for the first time unmoved, and then knelt down beside the old reprobate, and prayed so earnestly for God to touch her heart, and lead her to repentance, that her hard nature seemed humbled by his eloquence.

When he rose to go, to his infinite surprise and joy the boy stole to his side.

“Oh, sir, are you sure that those awful words you read to Granny are true?”

“Yes, my son, God’s truth.”

“And will he save a bad boy like me?”

“Certainly, if you repent, and seek him with all your heart and soul. The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.”

“And will you come again, and teach me how to love Him and pray to Him?”

“Yes, with pleasure. Can you read?”

“No, sir.”

“Come to Storby Sunday-school, and I will teach you.”

“That I will, right gladly. But, oh, sir, I know that I have been a very wicked boy.”

“So are all men who live without God in the world. If you wish really to lead a new life, begin by leaving off swearing, and treat your old grandmother more respectfully. It may please God to make you an instrument in His hands for her conversion.”

“I will try,” said the lad. “Oh, I be glad, glad, that you came to the house.”

Mr. Fitzmorris was glad too, or his face belied him. He slipped a few pieces of silver into the old woman’s hand, to procure her some tea and sugar, and went on his way rejoicing.

“See, my dear young friend,” he said to Dorothy, when they were once more on their road home, “how rich a harvest God often reaps from the most unpromising fields. The seed sown in that boy’s heart may yet bear fruit for heaven.”

CHAPTER VIII.

DOROTHY’S FIRST LETTER.

Dorothy formed many plans for future usefulness during her walk home, nor had she the least suspicion of the different field in which her labours of love would be required.

Mrs. Rushmere had for several months complained of a sharp stinging pain between her shoulders, caused by a very small and apparently insignificant tumour. “Too small,” the old lady said, “to make a fuss about.” She had, however, several times lately remarked to Dorothy, “that the provoking thing caused her much inconvenience.”

Always having enjoyed excellent health, Dorothy was very ignorant of the nature of diseases, but thinking that something must be wrong with her mother, she had urged her very strongly to show the cause of her uneasiness to Dr. Davy, the medical practitioner of Storby. This the old lady had promised to do, but had put it off from day to day. When Dorothy returned from her walk with Mr. Fitzmorris, she was greatly alarmed at finding Mrs. Rushmere in her bed, with traces of tears still wet upon her cheeks.

“My darling mother, what is the matter?” cried the affectionate girl, stooping over the bed and kissing her tenderly. “Are you ill?”

“More in mind than body,” returned the good woman, trying to smile. “Oh, Dolly, dear, that tumour pained me so this afternoon, that I got father to drive me over to see the doctor.”

“Well, and what did he say?” asked Dorothy, eagerly. Mrs. Rushmere’s lips quivered.

“Dolly, I don’t like to tell you. It will grieve you sore.”

Dorothy looked alarmed, and turned very pale, as she clasped her mother’s hand tighter in her own.

“He said it was a cancer.” The old lady spoke slowly and with difficulty. “That it had been suffered to go too far, and at my age any operation in such a dangerous part was useless.”

There was a long pause, only broken by the low sobbing of the two women.

“I don’t mind dying, Dolly dear,” continued Mrs. Rushmere, gathering courage to speak at last. “But oh, my pet! it is such a cruel death.”

“May God give you strength to bear it, my dear mother,” said Dorothy. “This is sad news; it cuts me to the heart.”

“I hope I may be spared to see Gilly again,” continued Mrs. Rushmere, for a moment forgetful of her sad fate. “The doctor said that I might live for months, or even for years; but I only want to live long enough to look into his face once more.”

After lying very still for a few minutes, she turned piteously to Dorothy, and continued—

“Dolly, if Gilbert should repent of his unkindness to you, would you forgive him?”

“Dear mother, I have done that long ago. How could I ask God to forgive me, and harbour resentment against anyone?”

“But would you marry him, if he wished it?”

Dorothy was silent. She felt in her heart that she no longer wished to be Gilbert Rushmere’s wife, yet she did not wish to agitate Mrs. Rushmere, by giving a flat negative to her question.

Her inward retrospection was interrupted by Mrs. Rushmere sinking back on her pillow, and gasping out, in a faint voice,

“Dorothy, you no longer love him?”

“Dear mother, these are useless and cruel questions. Gilbert will never put me to the trial of refusing him.”

“But if a’ did?”

“The answer to such an inquiry rightly belongs to the future. I know no more than you do how I might act. I trust in God that He would guide me to do what was right.”

“And will you promise, Dorothy, not to leave me, till it is all over—till—till they have laid me in the clay?”

“That I can promise with my whole heart. Yes, dearest, best friend, set your mind at rest on that point. I will nurse you, and do everything that lies in my power to help you, and alleviate your sufferings. How could you imagine for a moment the possibility of your Dolly leaving you?”

“Ah, what a jewel that foolish boy threw recklessly way,” sighed the good mother, as her adopted daughter left the room to make her a cup of tea.

A few days after this painful interview, the mail brought the news of the battle of Vittoria having been fought. Great was the public rejoicings on the occasion; a glad shout of triumph rang through the British Isles, proclaiming the victory their warlike sons had achieved. It was only in those homes to which the messenger of death brought evil tidings of the loved and lost, that the voice of joy was mute.

Dorothy ran over to Jonathan Sly’s to borrow the paper to read to old Rushmere, and in the list of the killed and wounded, found that Lieutenant Gilbert Rushmere had lost his right arm.

“Oh, father!” she cried, and suddenly stopped.

“Well, girl, out wi’t. Dost think I’m not a man, that I can’t bear the worst? Is Gilly killed?”

“No, thank God! but—but—he has lost his right arm.”

“Lost his right arm! He had better ha’ lost his life than return a cripple from the wars. Don’t you see, girl, that this will put a stop to his promotion, an’ make an idle pensioner of him—when, in these stirring times, he might ha’ risen to be a general officer. Dear—dear—dear! This is a terrible calamity. My boy—my brave boy!”

“Don’t tell mother a word about it, father, it would kill her in her weak state,” urged Dorothy.

“It won’t vex her, Dorothy, as it does me. She has no ambition for her son. She would sooner ha’ him sitting beside her with his one arm, so she had him safe at home, than know that he was commander o’ the British army abroad. It will be as well to say nought about it, Dorothy, if you can keep it from her. My dear old woman—the loss o’ her will be bad enough, wi’out this fresh trouble. Lost his right arm! Oh, my poor Gilly!”

Badly as Gilbert had behaved to her, Dorothy could better have borne the loss of her own arm. She still loved him well enough to feel truly grieved for his misfortune.

To a man of Gilbert’s active habits, the want of that arm would be a dreadful calamity. She could not bear to think of the empty sleeve, hanging so uselessly beside his tall athletic figure. In all rural sports be had always been foremost, and never failed to carry off the prize. What would they do without him on the cricket ground—their best bat? What at the ploughing matches, where he had always turned the straightest furrow? In the hay and harvest fields, where he had no equal? Even in the boat races he had always pulled the best oar. And when his discarded love thought of these things, she retired to the solitude of her own chamber, and wept bitterly.

She thought that Lawrence Rushmere ought to have felt more grateful to God for sparing the life of his son. But the old man had been in the habit of speculating so much upon his rising to hold a high position in the army, that he could scarcely as yet realize the destruction of all his ambitious hopes.

This, together with the growing weakness of his wife, who, to do the old man justice, he loved better than anything in the world, tended much to sour his temper, and render it no easy matter to live at peace with him.

Directly Gerard Fitzmorris heard, through Mrs. Martin, of the troubles in the Rushmere family, he hastened to offer them the consolations of religion, and the sympathy of a true and benevolent heart. His pastoral visits were duly appreciated by the poor invalid and Dorothy, to whom they afforded the greatest comfort.

Mrs. Rushmere was a woman after the vicar’s own heart. Her gentle resignation and genuine piety filled him with respect and admiration. He treated her as an affectionate son would do a beloved mother; soothing her in moments of intense suffering with his kind ministrations, and strengthening her mind with the blessed promises of the Gospel, to bear with submission the great burthen that had been laid upon her.

“The heavier the cross,” he would say, “the brighter the crown. The more meekly it is borne, the sweeter will be the rest at the end of the journey.”

Then he would join his fine mellow voice with Dorothy in singing the beautiful, though now forgotten, verse in the evening hymn: “For death is life, and labour rest.” Even the blunt farmer’s hard nature was softened by his touching prayers.

Mr. Fitzmorris did not exactly approve of Gilbert’s loss being kept a profound secret from his mother.

“I hate all concealment,” he cried. “The simple truth is always the best. You had better let me break it to her, than run the risk of her hearing it accidentally from another. The shock of seeing him with the empty sleeve, would give her more pain than if you were to make her acquainted with the facts.”

Still, neither Dorothy nor Mr. Rushmere could be persuaded to follow his advice.

A very few days had elapsed before Dorothy deeply repented not adopting his judicious advice.

Though her disease was rapidly progressing, and Mrs. Rushmere was becoming daily weaker, she was still able to occupy the room below, propped up by pillows in her easy chair. The sight of all the household arrangements, and the inmates going to and fro, amused her, and often made her forgetful of the pain she was suffering.

One morning while Dorothy was absent in the outer kitchen, preparing some broth, Miss Watling, who had learned the extent of Gilbert’s injuries, called upon Mrs. Rushmere to condole with her on the event, and pick up any bit of gossip she could with regard to Dorothy.

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Rushmere!” she cried, hurrying up to the easy chair, in which the old lady was reclining half asleep. “I am so sorry to find you sick and confined to the house. But you must not fret about Gilbert, indeed you must not. Directly I was told the dreadful news, I said to Mrs. Barford, ‘Lord a’ mercy, it will kill his poor mother.’”

“What about Gilbert! What dreadful news?” cried Mrs. Rushmere, starting from her half conscious state, and grasping the thin bony arm of her visitor with convulsive energy.

“Why, surely they must have told you that he was badly wounded in the great battle of Vittoria.”

“Badly wounded. A great battle. Oh, my son! my son!” and the distressed mother fell back in her chair in a swoon.

At this moment, Dorothy entered with the broth for the invalid. One glance at the death pale face of Mrs. Rushmere told the whole story. She put down the basin and hurried to her assistance.

“Oh, Miss Watling!” she said in a deprecating voice. “See what you have done?”

“And what have I done? told the woman what she ought to have known three weeks ago.”

“We had been keeping it from her,” said Dorothy, “because she was not strong enough to bear it.”

“And pray, Dorothy Chance, if a lady may be permitted to ask the question, what is the matter with her?”

“She is dying,” sobbed Dorothy, “of cancer in the back.”

“How should I know that? I am not gifted with second sight.”

“You know it now,” said Dorothy, “and as she is coming to, it would be better for you to leave me to break the whole thing more gently to her.”

“Oh, of course, you are the mistress here, and I am to leave the house at your bidding. I shall do no such thing without my old friend Mrs. Rushmere turns me out.”

Dorothy cast a glance of mingled pity and contempt upon the speaker. Just then, Mrs. Rushmere opened her eyes, and met Dorothy’s anxious sympathizing glance.

“Dorothy, is he dead?” she asked in a faint voice.

“No, dearest mother. Do compose yourself.”

“But is he mortally wounded? Tell me, tell me, the whole truth!”

Dorothy sank on her knees beside the chair, and passed her arms round Mrs. Rushmere’s waist, so that her head could rest upon her shoulder, while she whispered in her ear. “He lost his right arm in the battle.”

“And you did not tell me?”

“We wished to spare you unnecessary pain, dear mother.”

“I know you did it for the best, Dorothy—but all this time, I would have prayed for him. A mother’s earnest prayers are heard in heaven.”

“That’s downright popery, Mrs. Rushmere,” chimed in the hard woman.

“What does she say, Dorothy?”

“Oh, dear mother, it is a matter of no consequence. Do take your broth before it is cold. You have been greatly agitated. You know the worst now, and God will give you comfort.”

Dorothy placed the broth on a little table before her, wishing in her heart that she could hit on some plan to get rid of their unfeeling visitor.

“Gilbert will have to leave the army now,” said Miss Watling. “But I suppose he will retire on half pay, and have a good pension. But were the government to give him a fortune, it would scarcely repay a fine young fellow for the loss of a right arm.” Mrs. Rushmere dropped her spoon upon the floor and shivered.

“For the love of charity, Miss Watling, don’t refer to this terrible subject—you see how it agitates Mrs. Rushmere. There, she has fainted again. I will have to send off for the doctor.”

“That is another hint for me to go. This is all one gets by trying to sympathize with vulgar, low people.” And the angry spinster swept out of the room.

Her place was almost immediately filled by Mr. Fitzmorris. A look from Dorothy informed him how matters stood. He drew his chair beside Mrs. Rushmere’s, and took her hand in his.

“Mother, this is a severe trial, but you know where to seek for help. There is one whose strength can be made perfect in human weakness. Come, dry these tears, and thank God for sparing the life of your son. Remember, that he might have died in his sins—and be thankful. Dorothy,” he said, glancing up into the sweet face that rested on the top of her mother’s chair, “fetch Mrs. Rushmere a glass of wine, and warm that broth again. I mean to have the pleasure of seeing her eat it.”

“You are so good—so kind,” said Mrs. Rushmere, a wintry smile passing over her pale face.

“Nonsense, my dear Madam. No living creature deserves the first term. Even our blessed Lord while in the flesh rejected it. ‘There is none good but God,’ was his answer to the young man who preferred his great possessions to that blessed invitation, ‘Come and follow me.’

“But I really have good news for you; news which Lord Wilton kindly sent to cheer you. Gilbert’s arm was amputated above the elbow, and he is doing very well. Is already out of the hospital, and on his way home. Now, have you not every reason to be thankful, when so many mothers have to mourn for sons left for the wolf and the vulture on the battle plain?”

“I do not complain,” sighed Mrs. Rushmere. “Oh, God be thanked! I shall see him again.”

A burst of tears relieved her oppressed heart, and when Dorothy returned with the broth, Mr. Fitzmorris watched the patient eat it with evident satisfaction.

“She is better now,” he said; “I will read a few sentences and pray with her; and then, Dolly, dear, you had better put her to bed. She has had enough to harass her for one day.”

The circumstance of Mr. Fitzmorris calling her “Dolly, dear,” though it might only have been a slip of the tongue, trifling as it was, sent a thrill of joy to her heart.

When he rose to go, he beckoned her to the window, and put a very large letter into her hand. “This was enclosed to me by Lord Wilton. He is about to accompany his sick son to Madeira for change of air—the physician’s last shift to get rid of a dying patient.”

Dorothy put the letter in her pocket, secretly wondering what it could be about. She had no opportunity of reading it before she went to bed, as Mrs. Rushmere required her attendance far into the night, and the whole management of the house now devolved on her.

How eagerly she opened the letter, when, after a thousand petty hindrances, she at last found herself seated at the little table in her own chamber. Enclosed within the letter was a large sealed packet, upon which was written, “only to be opened, if I never return to England.”

The letter ran thus:—

“My dear Dorothy,

“I cannot leave England without bidding you farewell. You are very dear to me, so dear that words could scarcely convey to you the depth and strength of my affection. Do not start, my child—I can see the look of profound astonishment in the dear black eyes—I am not in love with you. The passion that bears that name, the passion that a lover feels for the woman he adores, whom he desires to call his own before all others, has long been dead in my heart, and lies buried with the loved and lost in a nameless grave.

“The love that unites me to you, my dear Dorothy, though widely different, is not less holy in its nature, and flows out of the unutterable tenderness that a parent feels for a beloved child. Oh, that I could call you my child before the whole world.

“Here, while watching beside the sick bed of my only son, the heir of my titles and estates, who, I fondly hoped, would carry down my name to posterity, and knowing that his hours are already numbered, my heart turns, in its sore agony, to you, the daughter of my choice, for sympathy and consolation. Do not deny me this, my dear young friend: write and tell me so; write just as you think and feel. I long for the simple utterances of your pure and guileless heart, so refreshing to my weary spirit, tired with the unmeaning hollow professions of the world.

“We sail for Madeira to-morrow, I do not entertain the least hope that it will benefit Edward’s health, but the change of scene and climate may amuse him on the one hand, and mitigate his sufferings on the other.

“Oh, Dorothy, how deeply I regret that you will never see this dear son. You who would have loved him so well, and who resemble him in many things so closely. Let us hope that we may all meet in another and better world.

“I am glad to hear that you have a friend in Gerard Fitzmorris. We have never been thrown much together, on account of the feuds and jealousies which, unfortunately, existed between the two families, but I have every reason to believe that, unlike his father and brother, the young vicar of Hadstone is an excellent man; one in whom, on any emergency, you may place the utmost confidence. I say this because I apprehend some trouble in store for you at home.

“I have learned from my son that Gilbert Rushmere, in order to secure a young lady of fortune whom he met in London, while on the recruiting service, married her before he went back with the regiment to Spain. It turns out that the young lady in question deceived her lover on this point, and it is more than probable that, on his return from abroad, he will go down to Heath Farm with his wife.

“I fear, my dear Dorothy, that this will be everything but an agreeable arrangement for you, and I have provided a home for you with Mrs. Martin in case you should find it so. I likewise enclose a draft on the county bank for fifty pounds of which I beg your acceptance, and which either my cousin Gerard or Mr. Martin can get cashed for you. The sealed packet you must lay by very carefully, as upon it may depend the recognition of your parentage. Perhaps it would be safer for you to deposit such important documents in the hands of Mr. Martin or Fitzmorris. Should I live to return, their contents will be of little importance, as you can then learn them from my own lips.

“Do not grieve over your lover’s marriage, but believe with me that it is a providential thing, the very best that could happen in your position.

“And now, farewell, beloved child. Keep me in your thoughts, and remember me ever in your prayers. I have not forgotten our conversation on the heath. From reading daily that blessed volume to my dear Edward, I have derived more peace and comfort than my troubled spirit has known for years.

“Your attached friend,

“EDWARD FITZMORRIS.

“London, July 14th.”

Dorothy read the letter over several times. Bewildered and astonished, she scarcely knew what to make of its contents. Though it had informed her of the marriage of Gilbert, she had not shed a tear or felt the least regret. She could meet him without sorrow for the past, or hope for the future. He was far, far removed from her now. They were placed wide as the poles asunder. She could speak to him without hesitation, and answer him without a blush. He was no longer anything to her. He was the husband of another. But then his marriage. It seemed to have been one of deceit and trickery, and she felt sorrow for him. But after all, had he not been rightly served? He had married a woman without love, for her money, and had not obtained the wealth for which he had sacrificed himself and her.

Dorothy felt that there was a retributive justice even in this world; that if Gilbert had acted uprightly he would not have been punished; and when she thought of the misery such a disappointment must have inflicted on his proud heart, and the loss of the strong right arm, that might have won him an honourable and independent position, she fully realized how severe that punishment had been.

From the news of her lover’s marriage, which to her was so unexpected, she turned to ponder over the contents of the Earl’s letter, or those portions of it that related to herself and him. Inexperienced as Dorothy was in the conventionalisms of the world, she could not but feel that there was some strange mystery hidden under the terms of endearment, so profusely heaped upon her. A vague surmise leaped across her brain. Could it be possible that she was anything nearer to him than a friend? She laughed at her presumption in supposing such a thing, but the idea had made an impression on her mind that she could not banish.

Sudden and extraordinary as his attachment had been to her, she never had for a moment imagined him as a lover. She always thought that his regard was the pure offspring of benevolence, the interest he took in her story, when backed by the strong likeness she bore to his mother. Now she asked herself whence came that singular resemblance? Her own mother was a fair woman, every person that had seen her agreed in that. How came she with the straight features and dark eyes of the Earl and his mother? And then she turned the sealed packet over and longed with an intense desire, which amounted to pain, to read its contents and solve the strange mystery which was known only to him.

A keen sense of honour forbade her to break the seal. The temptation to do so was the strongest she had ever experienced in her life. She sat pondering over these things, heedless of the long hours that slipped by, until the first rays of the summer sun had converted into diamonds all the dewdrops on the heath. It was too late or rather too early then to go to bed, so changing her afternoon muslin for a calico working dress, she roused the prentice girl to go with her to the marshes and fetch home the cows.

CHAPTER IX.

DOROTHY MAKES A “CONFIDANT” OF MR. FITZMORRIS.

Dorothy was undecided in what manner to break the news of Gilbert’s marriage to his mother, to whom she well knew the intelligence would be everything but welcome. Fortunately she was spared what she foolishly considered a humiliating task.

The walking post from the village beyond Hadstone in the shape of a very spare wrinkled old woman, whom all the boys in the neighbourhood considered a witch, left a letter at the door on her way to Storby, for Mrs. Rushmere.

“This is from Gilbert,” said Dorothy, as she examined the seal and superscription. “But no, the hand is not his. Some one must have written it for him, (and she remembered the lost arm), his wife perhaps.” The writing was that of a woman, and the letter was neatly folded and sealed. Gilbert’s letters were short and ill-shaped, and closed with a great blotch of discoloured wax pressed down with a regimental button. The epistle was evidently none of his.

She had left Mrs. Rushmere in the easy chair, talking with her husband about Gilbert’s misfortune. They were still pursuing the same theme, when she reentered the room.

“A letter for you, dear mother, with the London post-mark. One shilling postage. The old woman is waiting for it at the door.”

Mrs. Rushmere gave her the money, bidding her quickly return, and read the letter. It was, as Dorothy suspected, from Gilbert’s wife.

“Dear Madam,

“I write at the desire of my husband, your son, Lieutenant Rushmere.”

“Hold!” cried the farmer. “Gilbert married. I’ll not believe a word on’t. He’d never get married without telling us about it, or giving us a jollification at the wedding. Tut, tut, girl, ‘tis all a hoax.”

“Go on with the letter, Dorothy, and let us hear what the woman says for hersel’,” said Mrs. Rushmere. “It may be true after all.”

“I think you will find it so,” returned Dorothy, who had been glancing over the first page.

“You will be sorry to hear that he lost his right arm in the battle of Vittoria, but is now in a fair way of recovery, and as well in health as could be expected. He is very anxious to visit his home and his parents again, and if nothing happens to prevent our journey, we shall be with you the day after to-morrow by the London mail. Mr. Rushmere need not trouble himself to send a conveyance to meet us at the coach. My mother will accompany us. I bring my own servant, and the luggage consequently will be heavy. Lieutenant Rushmere proposes to hire a post-chaise to carry us on to Hadstone. Hoping, dear madam, to meet you and Mr. Rushmere in good health,

“I remain, yours truly,

“SOPHIA RUSHMERE.”

Dorothy folded the letter, and the three exchanged glances. “His wife, and mother, and servant. Where are they all to be stowed?” asked Dorothy, who did not like the formal tone of the letter, and the cool manner in which the lady had included her mother and servant in the visit. “Well, Dolly, dear, we must contrive to make them comfortable,” cried the good mother, rubbing her hands, and rejoicing in the near prospect of beholding her son. “Gilbert has taken us by surprise, both in regard to his marriage and this visit; but the mother and daughter may turn out very agreeable people, and be willing to submit to a little inconvenience.”

“I hope it may be so, dear mother, for your sake; I will do my best to accommodate the party, but I want to know how it is to be done. There are only three sleeping rooms, and the attic, in the old house.”

“The servant gals can sleep together,” said Rushmere, “in the attic. Gilbert and his wife can occupy his own room; and the old missus may share your bed.”

“The good lady may not approve of sleeping with a stranger.”

“Oh, dang the old mother! she might ha’ waited till she was invited. What the dickens did they want to bring her for?”

“I can stay with Mrs. Martin during their visit,” suggested Dorothy. “As they bring their own servant, and our Polly is a very willing creature, my service will no longer be required.”

“It is natural, Dorothy, that you should object to meet Gilbert’s wife,” said Mrs. Rushmere, thoughtfully; “and if we could possibly do without you, I would advise it strongly.”

“And who’s to wait upon you, Mary,” asked Rushmere, angrily. “Gilbert’s naught to Dorothy now. I don’t see the necessity of her running away just when she be most wanted.”

“I could sleep and take my meals at Mrs Martin’s, and attend to dear mother’s requirements as well as I do now. But, indeed, indeed, I should feel much happier away. At least,” she added, in a broken voice, “for the first few days.”

“Let it be so,” said Mrs. Rushmere, kindly pressing her hands.

“Thank you, dearest mother, for the permission; I will go, but not until I have arranged everything for their comfort. And one thing I must request of you, father, that you never treat me as a servant before Gilbert’s wife.”

“Oh, if you mean to take yourself off, Dolly, you may as well go altogether. Gilbert’s wife’s a lady; she won’t put up with airs from the like o’ you.”

“Ah, there it is, father, you are kind enough when we are alone, but the moment any one comes into the house you treat me as an object of charity, especially if you think them rich and well-born. But I tell you candidly that I have too much self-respect to bear it any longer. If you cannot value my love and faithful services, I have friends who stand as high in the world’s estimation, who do. You may find Gilbert’s wife a woman more to your taste, but she will never be a better daughter to you than I have been.”

“Nobody found fault with you, girl, that you should go off in a tantrum about naught. It’s only just your envy of Gilly’s rich wife, that makes you saucy to me. In course, as my son’s wife, she must be a person of more consequence in the house than ever you can be. It’s neither kind nor grateful o’ you to be talking of leaving your mother when she be unable to help herself.”

Mrs. Rushmere cast a pleading look at Dorothy, to take no notice of this ungracious speech. He had an ugly habit, she often said, of undervaluing his best friends before strangers which sprang out of an overweening sense of his own importance, and a wish to exalt himself at the expense of others.

Dorothy took Mrs. Rushmere’s hint, and left the room to prepare for the arrival of the bridal party. She was vexed with herself for resenting Mr. Rushmere’s coarse speeches, and pressed Lord Wilton’s letter which she had in her bosom, more closely against her heart. While she possessed the esteem of such men as the Earl, Henry Martin, and Gerard Fitzmorris, why need she mind the ungenerous sarcasm of an illiterate man.

Calling Polly, the parish apprentice, to her aid, she set diligently to work, and before the dinner hour arrived, their united efforts had made the two chambers fit for the reception of their expected inmates.

Dorothy did not mean to share her bed with Gilbert’s mother-in-law, and though she felt much regret in leaving the dear little room she had occupied for so many years, she greatly preferred sleeping alone in the attic. Thither she removed her little store of books, her pots of geraniums and fuchsias, the small trunk that held her clothes, and a few keepsakes she had been given by the kind Martins. What to do with the check she had received from Lord Wilton, she did not know. She was astonished that such a small slip of paper could stand for such a large sum of money. She felt dreadfully afraid of losing it, and determined to show it to Mr. Fitzmorris, and ask him to keep it for her, together with the mysterious sealed packet, which she had a great longing to read. “And I am afraid I shall do it, if it remains in my own possession,” she said, “though I know it would be very wicked.”

When the rooms were put in order, and everything looked as clean and bright as new pins, as Polly said, Dorothy led Mrs. Rushmere upstairs to inspect them, and see if they were entirely to her satisfaction.

“They look like yourself, my darling Dorothy,” said Mrs. Rushmere, falling on her neck and kissing her. “Neat and beautiful. Oh! my beloved child, you don’t know how I feel for you. How much I dread the coming of these strange women. It do seem to me so odd that he should marry all on a suddent, an’ never tell us a word about it. An’ he so weak an’ ill, from the loss o’ his arm.”

“Oh, but he was married before he left England the last time, which accounts for his sending no message to me in his letter.”

“Why, Dolly, did the wife write that? I never heard you read a word on’t in her letter?”

Dorothy was dumb-foundered, she had quite forgotten that Lord Wilton was her informant, and to get out of the scrape into which she had fallen, for she abhorred all concealment, she thought it best to show Mrs. Rushmere the Earl’s letter.

Sending Polly downstairs to prepare the dinner, she made her mother take a seat on a lounge by the window, while she read the important document, and shewed her the mysterious sealed packet, and the draft for the money.

Mrs. Rushmere made her read it twice over. It was a long time before she spoke. She sat lost in a profound reverie.

“Mother,” said Dorothy, “you will not mention what I have read to any one. Neither to father nor Gilbert.”

“Poor Gilly,” sighed the mother, “how blind he has been to reject the gold and take up with the dross, and exchange a real lady for a cunning impostor. He ha’ given himself away for a brass farthing. Well, Dorothy, you have had your revenge, and bitterly will father and son repent o’ their obstinate folly.”

“We will talk no more of that, mother. It was a painful experience, but it is past and gone. The Lord did not intend me to be Gilbert’s wife. ‘The lot is cast into the lap, but the choosing of it is from Him.’ I feel this day happy and grateful that it is so.”

“You may well do that, Dorothy. Your fortunes, will, indeed, lie far apart. Oh! my child, when I think of all that he has lost, of all that might have been his, it is enough to break my heart.”

“Mother, I don’t understand you.”

“No, nor is it fit you should. But I see, I know it all. Time will bring to light the hidden things of darkness, and when I am in the dust, Dorothy, and you are a great lady, remember how dearly I loved you. Loved you while poor and friendless, and gathered you into my heart as my own.”

Mrs. Rushmere’s head was now resting upon Dorothy’s bosom, and she was weeping bitterly.

“Mother, I am so sorry I showed you that letter, it has grieved you so much; but I have never kept anything from you. I did not like to conceal my correspondence with the Earl. Do you think it would be improper in me to answer his letter, and accept that money?”

“You must do both, Dorothy. You owe him both love and obedience. You have given me your confidence, I will give you mine. I feel certain that you be his daughter.”

“Mother!”

“Whether by marriage or imprudent love, remains yet to be told. But time will prove that I be right.”

“Ah, how could that poor starved creature be an Earl’s wife?” and Dorothy shuddered, as if an arrow had suddenly pierced her heart.

“How, indeed?” continued Mrs. Rushmere.

“There was a wild story afloat some years agone, of his having seduced a beautiful girl adopted by his mother. She went home to her grandmother in consequence, and the cruel old woman turned her into the streets, an’ she was never heard of again—folks did say that she walked into the sea when the tide was coming in, an’ destroyed hersel’. No one but God knows.”

“But I could not love Lord Wilton if I were that miserable lost creature’s daughter,” cried Dorothy, wringing her hands. “Oh mother! mother! it would be worse than being called the beggar’s brat that farmer Rushmere picked up on the heath. If I thought that I were his child through that infamous connection, I would spurn him and his gift from me as accursed things!”

She took the packet from her bosom, and was about to put her threat into execution. Mrs. Rushmere stayed her hand.

“Dorothy, what be you about? Supposing your mother to have been his wife, you may be destroying the proofs of your legitimacy. As Lawrence would say, ‘cutting your own throat.’”

“True,” said Dorothy, frightened at her own rashness. “How wrong it is of any one to act without thinking. This wedding-ring, after all, may be a true witness that my poor mother was an honest woman.”

“At any rate, Dorothy, it is useless for you to try and puzzle out the truth; even if so be that you hit upon it, without farther evidence you could not satisfy yoursel’ that it was so. But be sartin sure o’ this, that mystery and concealment are generally used to cover crime. If Lord Wilton had acted rightly, he would not have been afraid of owning his wife to the world. Selfishness and sin must lie at some one’s door, and women—the poor creatures—when they love, generally fling their all into the scale, regardless of consequences.

“But there’s the dinner-bell, my pet, father will be rampaging if he comes in and finds us talking here.”

After Dorothy had given Mrs. Rushmere her tea that evening, and got her comfortably to bed, she tripped across the dreary heath by the light of the July moon to see Mrs. Martin, and tell her all that had transpired.

She found no one at home but Mr. Fitzmorris, who was walking up and down the lawn, with a closed book in his hand, in which he could no longer see to read. He looked up, as the little gate swung to, and came forward to meet her. “Oh, Mr. Fitzmorris, you are the very person I wanted to see. I am so glad to find you alone.”

He looked into the sweet face with an inquiring glance, but seemed suddenly struck with its unusual pallor.

“Dorothy, something has happened to annoy you. I can read that face of yours like an open book. You could not deceive any one.”

“I hope I may never be tempted to try. But oh, Mr. Fitzmorris, I was sorely tempted last night to do a very dishonourable thing.”

“And did the tempter succeed, Dorothy?”

“No, though I had not the courage to say ‘get thee behind me Satan.’ But if you will sit down under this tree, I will tell you all about it, and the many anxious thoughts that are passing through my mind.”

“I am hardly old enough, Dorothy, to be a father confessor.”

“But I have as much confidence in you, Mr. Fitzmorris, as though you were as old as Methuselah.”

Gerard laughed heartily.

“As you have inducted me into this office, Dorothy, make a clean breast of it.”

“But it is no laughing matter,” quoth Dorothy, “I found it sad and serious enough.”

She then informed him of the contents of Lord Wilton’s letter, and showed him the check for the fifty pounds, and the mysterious sealed packet. He listened very attentively.

“It is too dark under the trees, Dorothy, to examine these important papers. Come with me into my study. There we shall be free from interruption.”

When once in the sanctum sanctorum, into which no one ever intruded but Mrs. Martin, and that only once-a-week, to dust the furniture and arrange his books and papers, the vicar lighted his candles, and bidding Dorothy take a seat in the big leather arm-chair, he went to the table and read Lord Wilton’s letter.

To Dorothy’s great surprise, he made no comment on its contents.

“You wish me to take charge of this packet?” he asked.

“If you will be troubled with it. But what do you think of the letter, Mr. Fitzmorris?”

“A great deal, Dorothy, but the contents are too sacred to be lightly talked about. Have you any idea of the relation in which this man stands to you, my young friend?”

“I scarcely dare guess,” and Dorothy, bowed her head on her hands and burst into tears.

“That he is your father there can be no doubt.”

“Oh, sir, how can I love him as a father, if I be the child of sin and dishonour?”

“Still, Dorothy, he is your father,” said Gerard, solemnly taking the hand that trembled in his own, “the author of your being; as such, however erring, he has a right to claim from you the love and duty of a child. That he truly loves you, and is anxious to repair, as far as now lies in his power, the injury he has inflicted upon you and your poor mother, is touchingly evident. My dear little cousin, (what a thrill of joy shot through Dorothy’s heart as he called her so,) it is not for us, who are all sinners in the sight of a holy God, lightly to condemn another. No one knows how they would themselves act when placed in situations of strong temptation. The best of us are so much the creatures of circumstances, that we ought to pity rather than pronounce harsh judgment against the fallen.

“Take this unhappy father to your heart, Dorothy, and cherish him there. You may be an instrument in the hands of God for the salvation of his soul.”

“I do love him,” sobbed Dorothy, “but I want to respect, to venerate him, to look upon him as the dearest living tie next to God in my soul. The first time I ever saw him, when he was so kind to me, a poor, uneducated country girl, I felt drawn towards him by a strong, mysterious instinct—if I may so call it—and whenever I have met him since, my love for him, and the deep interest I felt in his sorrow, although perfectly unconscious of the cause, acquired new strength.”

“The voice of nature asserting her solemn claims upon your heart. To drown this voice, Dorothy, would be to close your ears to the commandment which tells us to honour our father and mother.”

“What shall I do? Oh, tell me, how to act towards him;” and the supplicating black eyes were raised to his, gleaming through tears.

“Write to him, Dorothy, freely, fully, confidentially. Let there be no secrets between you. He claims your sympathy; give it to him with your whole heart. Think how much he needs it, watching day by day the sick bed of his only son. Hoping, fearing, still praying for his recovery, yet inwardly conscious that the feeble flame of life flickers to its close. Remember, that in a few weeks at the farthest, you will be all that remains to him in the world.”

“Oh, I feel ashamed of having felt any bitterness against him,” said Dorothy. “It was cruel, it was sinful. How I wish I could console him for the loss of that dear son. The brother,” he says, “that is so like me, whom now, I shall never see.”

“Oh, yes, Dorothy, you will see him. His life is but one act in the vast drama of Eternity. But we will turn from this sad subject, and speak of Lord Wilton’s kindness and forethought for your comfort, in providing a home for you with Mrs. Martin, in case you should find the company of these strange women, who are coming to the farm to-morrow, disagreeable.”

“It was very good.”

Both remained silent some minutes. Mr. Fitzmorris took Dorothy’s hand, and said with deep earnestness:—

“Dare I ask my young friend how she bore the news of Gilbert’s marriage?”

“You will think me very unfeeling, Mr. Fitzmorris; I felt glad—felt that I could meet him with perfect composure. That it was God’s will that it should be so, and I was satisfied. But the thought of meeting his wife was really painful. This you will consider foolish pride on my part. But to me such a meeting is humiliating.”

“If she be the woman that the Earl represents, you need not feel humbled by her bad, or exalted by her good opinion. Treat her with Christian benevolence, and avoid all discussions that may lead to angry words. I think it would be hard for any one to quarrel with you, Dorothy.”

“But you don’t know me, Mr. Fitzmorris. All black-eyed people are naturally fierce. I was on the eve of quarrelling this very morning with father.”

“A very hard matter, I should think, to keep from quarrelling with him,” said Mr. Fitzmorris, laughing. “But, Dorothy, if you can live in peace with these people, until Lord Wilton’s return, I see no actual necessity for your leaving the farm, while your doing so might give rise to unpleasant scandal. Besides, what would that sweet woman, your dear mother, do without you? Keep at the post of duty, little cousin, as long as you can.”

“Then you think I had better return.”

“Decidedly, I shall call and see Mrs. Rushmere, whenever I can command a spare moment, and you can let me know from time to time, how you get on. Now, put on your bonnet, and I will see you home.”

CHAPTER X.

THE ARRIVAL OF THE BRIDAL PARTY.

Dorothy felt happier, for having opened her mind to Mr. Fitzmorris, she went early to her humble chamber and slept soundly.

The bridal party was expected a little before twelve, which was the usual dinner hour; but in order to prepare a more luxurious repast in honour of the strangers, and to give the ladies time to change their dresses, the dinner was postponed until one. Dorothy was busy all the morning making cakes and pies, and preparing fowls and other dainties for their especial benefit.

Polly was in high spirits, grinning approbation, and watching all her young mistress’s operations with intense delight.

“I hope they will like the dinner,” said Dorothy.

“Lauk, miss, how can they help it wi’ all them bootiful junkets. I never seed sich loads of nice things a’ cooking in all my life. My, I’m thinking how the old measter will tuck into that grand plum puddink.”

“Now mind and keep the pots boiling, Polly, and a good clear fire to the roast beef.”

“Eh, never you fear, Miss Dolly, I’ll cook ‘em prime.”

Dolly proceeded to arrange the dinner table with exquisite neatness. She had just concluded her preparations and made her simple toilet, when a post chaise, the roof loaded with trunks, dashed up to the house.

Pincher, who had been restlessly following his young mistress from the kitchen to the big hall during the morning, as if he had a right to inspect all her operations, rushed out and greeted the arrival of the bridal party, with a torrent of angry barking. Mr. Rushmere, in his best Sunday suit, hurried to the carriage to receive his long absent son.

Mrs. Rushmere was not as well as usual, and was much agitated by the expected reunion. She was reclining in her easy chair, near the window, where she could get the first sight of the party without being seen. Dorothy was leaning over the back of the chair, dreading the effect of her first interview with Gilbert and the introduction to her daughter-in-law might have upon the weak nerves of the mother.

“Silence your confounded barking, you unmannerly cur,” cried the farmer, kicking poor honest Pincher from between his feet, “and don’t go and skear the women folk.”

“Oh, my dog! my beautiful Jewel,” screamed a shrill female voice, “that ugly brute will kill my pet! Here, Martha,” calling to a coarse, vulgar dumpy-looking girl, who sat beside the driver on the box, “come down quick, and take care of my dog.”

The girl left her lofty perch, in her descent showing a pair of legs that would have beat the world-renowned Mullengar heifer hollow, and taking a white curly little poodle from the arms of her mistress, sulkily waddled with him into the house.

“What, Pincher! The good old dog,” cried a well remembered voice. “Come here, sir, and speak to your master.”

The dog fairly leaped up into Gilbert’s arms, and said, “How do you do,” as plain as a dog could do.

“Father, how are you?” holding out his left hand. “As hale and hearty, I see, as ever. Will you help out the ladies, while I go and speak to mother?”

“That’s my Gilly,” said Mrs. Rushmere, half rising from her chair. “God bless him.” The next moment she was sobbing on his shoulder.

“Good God, what’s the matter with mother? Dear mother, how ill you look; speak to me, mother.”

“Leave her to me, Mr. Rushmere. She has been ill for some weeks. The joy of seeing you again, is too much for her,” said Dorothy, bathing the hands and temples of the invalid with sal volatile.

“Dorothy Chance, can that be you?” cried Gilbert, gazing in astonishment at the beautiful young woman before him. “Well, wonders will never cease. I left you a buxom country girl, I return after a few months and find you a lady. Have you no word for an old friend?”

“Gilbert, I am glad to see you back, for your mother’s sake. I wish you much joy of your marriage.”

Gilbert felt hurt and humbled.

At that moment, old Rushmere striving to do the amiable, ushered the two ladies into the room, just as Mrs. Rushmere regained her self-possession.

“My dear,” said her husband, leading Mrs. Gilbert up to his wife, “let me have the pleasure of introducing you to your daughter.” Mrs. Rushmere held out her hand, and the younger female bent down and kissed her.

“I’m a very sick woman, my dear. You must excuse my not rising, but I am very glad to see you. I hope you will make yersel at home; we be but simple country folk.”

“So I perceive, ma’am. I dare say we shall soon be friends.”

“This is Mrs. Rowly, wife,” said the farmer, introducing Mrs. Gilbert’s mother, an ordinary looking woman of fifty; vulgar and gaudily dressed. “I hope we shall all get better acquainted soon.”

This ceremony was scarcely over, when Mrs. Gilbert asked, with a supercilious air, to be shown to their apartments, as she was tired with her long journey, and wished to lie down for an hour or two before dinner.

“Martha,” she said, addressing the girl, who had been staring about her with the white poodle in her fat arms. “Give Jewel a bath, his coat is quite dusty, and when he is dry bring him up to me. I am afraid that horrid, vulgar-looking cur will hurt him.”

“Dinner will be on the table in half-an-hour, Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere,” said Dorothy, hardly able to keep her gravity.

“Gracious! at what hour do you country people dine?” and she pulled out a gold watch. “It is just half-past twelve. I could not eat a morsel so early in the day. We always have been accustomed to get dinner at six o’clock.”

“That may do for fashionable Lunnon folks,” muttered old Rushmere, “but it won’t do here. If you can’t yeat a good dinner when ‘tis ready, I will.”

“My wife will soon accommodate herself to country hours,” said Gilbert, laughing. “The fine, fresh air has made me very hungry. So, when you have changed your dress, Sophy, I shall be glad to eat my dinner.”

“The dinner can be put back for an hour,” said Dorothy, “if it would suit Mrs. Gilbert better.”

“She must learn to take things as she finds them,” said Gilbert, casting a significant look at his wife. “I know of old, that father never will wait for his dinner.”

“Not for King George!” cried Rushmere, slapping his knee with vigour. “A’ never could see any sense in spoiling good food.”

“But you know, Mr. Rushmere,” said the young lady, in a soft dulcet voice, and sheathing her claws, as a cat does, in velvet, “it requires time for town-bred people to accommodate themselves to fashions so totally unlike what they have been used to. You must have patience with me, and I shall soon get into your ways.”

“All right,” returned Lawrence, rather doggedly. “I be too old to learn new tricks—an’ what’s more, a’ don’t mean to try.”

“Nobody wants you, father,” said Mrs. Gilbert, giving him a very small white hand.

“Let’s kiss an’ be friends then,” quoth Rushmere, pulling her face down to him, at the risk of demolishing all the flowers in her gipsy hat, and imprinting on her cheek a salute, that sounded through the room like the crack of a pistol.

The young lady drew back and laughed, but she cast a side-long glance at her mother, which seemed to say, “the vulgar fellow, how can I tolerate him?”

Happily unconscious of his newly-found daughter’s private sentiments, Mr. Rushmere rubbed his hands together in great glee, exclaiming, in a jocular manner,

“That’s your sort. I like to be free an’ easy wi’ friends. It’s no use, my dear, putting on grand airs with folks that don’t understand ‘em.”

“I believe you are perfectly right,” replied Mrs. Gilbert, with another peculiar glance at her mother. “The Bible says, I think, ‘that it is no use casting pearls before swine.’”

Then turning to Dorothy, upon whose rosy mouth an expression rested very like contempt, she said, “Will you show us the way upstairs? I suppose that even in the country you change your dresses before dinner?”

Happily for Gilbert his father had not heard the latter part of his wife’s speech, and the insult it implied. The old man’s good sense and judgment had been laid to sleep by that Judas-like kiss.

“Your wife, Gilly,” he said, as she disappeared up the old staircase, “is a fine woman, an’ a lady, if ever I saw one. Not very young, though—eh, Gilly? Atween twenty-five and thirty,” poking his son in the ribs. “Just the proper age to make a man a good, prudent wife. Well, my boy, I wish you much joy with her, long life, health, prosperity, an’ plenty o’ fine, stalwart sons to carry his name down to posterity,” pointing to the soldier of the covenant. “Come, let us take a glass o’ fine old ale on the strength ‘ont!”

“And what does mother say?” and the soldier went across, and sat down beside the poor pale invalid.

“I wish you may be happy, my dear Gilbert. The sight of that empty sleeve sadly takes from the joy of seeing you.”

“Yes, it is a cruel loss, and yet I am rather proud of it, mother. It was lost fighting for my country. It happened just in the moment of victory, when the shouts of my comrades resounded on all sides. I hardly knew what had happened till the excitement was over, for I believe I shouted as loud as the rest.”

“Come here, Gilly, and tell me all about it,” cried Rushmere, getting a little elevated with that long draught of old ale.

“Hurrah, my boy! My brave boy! You be a true Briton an’ no mistake. I honour the empty sleeve. It is the badge o’ a hero. Lord Nelson wore it afore you.”

While the parents were asking of their son a thousand interesting questions about the war and his future prospects, Dorothy had conducted the two ladies to their sleeping-rooms.

Mrs. Gilbert looked round the humble adornments of the chamber, with a very dissatisfied air. The place appeared less attractive for being cluttered up with trunks and band boxes, which always give an air of discomfort to a chamber of small dimensions.

“What miserable cribs,” she observed, shugging her shoulders. “Does the house afford no better accommodation?”

“This is the best and largest sleeping room. It was always occupied by your husband till he went abroad.”

“By Lieutenant Rushmere,” said Mrs. Gilbert, correcting her. “Stow those trunks away into the dressing-room, and that will give us more space to move about.”

“There is no dressing-room.”

“No dressing-room!” exclaimed both the women in a breath. Dorothy shook her head.

“They can be placed in the passage, Mrs. Gilbert, if you wish it. Shall I call up your servant to remove them?”

“Certainly not. She has my dog to feed and attend to. Cannot you do it yourself?”

“Certainly not,” said Dorothy, repeating her words, “I am not a hireling but an adopted daughter of Mrs. Rushmere’s, with whom I have resided since my infancy.”

“Oh, indeed. I thought there were no fine ladies in the country,” sneered the spurious aristocrat.

“Not without they are imported from London,” said Dorothy, with an air of nonchalance, as she left the room.

“Mamma! mamma!” cried Mrs. Gilbert, raising her hands. “Did you ever hear such impertinence? I’ll soon get that jade out of the house. I wonder Gilbert never told us a word about this creature, and he was brought up with her.”

“I think Gilbert Rushmere has behaved very ill in bringing us down to this outlandish place,” said Mrs. Rowly, turning from the glass. “After all his bragging and boasting, you would have imagined it a baronial castle at least, and his mother a titled lady.”

“If I had known what sort of people they were, I never would have married him,” said Mrs. Gilbert. “I thought him handsome and rich, and there he is—a useless cripple, with nothing for us to depend upon but his paltry pension.”

“Now you are here, Sophy, you must make the best of it. You know how we are situated. You cannot live elsewhere.”

“And to have that stuck-up girl always in the house—a spy upon all one’s actions. It’s not to be thought of or tolerated for a moment. I wonder what sort of people there are in the neighbourhood. I shall positively die of dulness, shut up with these illiterate low-bred creatures.” And the bride continued grumbling and complaining, until Polly announced that dinner was on the table.

Polly had had her troubles in the kitchen with Mrs. Gilbert’s maid, who was about as common a specimen of humanity as could well be imagined, rendered doubly ridiculous by a servile apeing of the fine manners of her mistress.

She was a most singular looking creature; her height not exceeding five feet, if that, and as broad as she was long. Neck she had none. Her huge misshapen head was stuck between her shoulders, and so out of proportion to the rest of the body, that at the first glance she appeared strangely deformed.

She had a flat, broad, audacious face, with a short pert nose in the centre of it, which was hardly elevated enough to give her a profile at all. Her eyes were small, wide apart, and perfectly round, and she had a fashion of fixing them on any one’s face, with a stare of such unblushing effrontery, that she literally looked them down. Insolent to the poor and unfortunate, she was the most submissive sneak to those whom she found it her interest to flatter and cajole.

She had in this manner got the length of her young mistress’s foot, as the common saying has it, and by worming herself into her confidence, had been the recipient of so many important secrets, that Mrs. Gilbert, afraid that she might betray her, let her have her own way, and do as she pleased; consequently, she had to put up with her insolence and contradiction, in a manner that would have been perfectly humiliating to a person more sensitive.

This creature was made up of vanity and self-conceit. She would talk to others of her splendid head—her beautiful high forehead—her pretty hands and feet. It was hardly possible to think her in earnest; and for a long while Dorothy imagined this self-adulation arose out of the intense contradiction in her character, her mind being as ill-assorted as her body. But no, it was a sober fact. Her audacity gave her an appearance of frankness and candour she did not possess, but which often imposed upon others; for a more cunning, mischief-loving, malicious creature never entered a house to sow dissension and hatred among its inhabitants.

Clever she was—but it was in the ways of evil—and those who, from the insignificance of her person, looked upon her as perfectly harmless, often awoke too late to escape the effects of her malignity. She had watched with keen attention the meeting between the Rushmeres, while she stood apparently as indifferent as a block to the whole scene, with the white poodle hanging over her arms.

She guessed, by the sad expression that passed over the sick mother’s face, when introduced to her mistress, that she read that lady’s character, and was disappointed in her son’s wife. The girl was perfectly aware how weak and arrogant her mistress was, and she laughed in her sleeve at the quarrels she saw looming in the future.

For Dorothy, she felt hatred at the first glance. Young, good and beautiful—that was enough to make her wish to do her any ill turn that lay in her power. How easy it would be to make her vain proud mistress jealous of this handsome girl. What fun to set them by the ears together. Had she only known that Gilbert had recently been the lover of the girl, whose noble appearance created such envy in her breast, the breach between him and his wife would sooner have been accomplished than even her cunning anticipated.

She was rather afraid of old Rushmere, whom she perceived was as obstinate and contradictory as herself. But he could be flattered. She had proved that the hardest and coldest natures are more vulnerable to this powerful weapon than others.

Martha Wood, the damsel whose portrait we have attempted to draw, stepped down into the kitchen to perform a task she abhorred, and wash the pampered pet, whose neck she longed to wring, and some day, when a favourable opportunity occurred, she had determined to do it.

“Are you the kitchen girl?” she said to Polly, who she saw was an easy going, good-natured creature.

“That’s what I’se be.”

“What queer English you speak,” said Martha, dropping her fat bulk into a chair. “It’s the fashion here. Your master and mistress speak the same.”

“I do’ant know what a’ means,” said Polly, pouring the water off the potatoes. “My master an’ mistress are moighty kind folk, I can tell yer.”

“Oh, I dare say, but London is the place for girls to live well, and get well paid.”

“I do’ant care for the pay, so I be well fed an’ comfortable,” responded Polly. Then happening to cast her eyes upon Jewel, she exclaimed. “La! what be that?”

“A lap dog.”

“What sort o’ a dawg? a’ looks for a’ the world loike a bundle o’ wool. A fooney dawg,” and she ventured to touch its head with her forefinger; “wu’ll a’ bite?”

“Bite, no he has not spunk in him to do that. I want you to give him a bath.”

“A what.”

“Put him in a tub of warm water, and wash him with soap and a flannel.”

“Wash a dawg wi’ warm water. I’ll see him drownded in it, fust,” said Polly retreating to her potatoes. “I never washed a dawg in a’ my life.”

“Do it for me this once, there’s a dear kind creature,” cried Martha, coaxingly, who wanted to establish a precedent and get the brute by degrees off her own hands. “I am so tired with my long journey.”

“Tired wi’ riding all night in a grand coach,” laughed Polly, “a’ only wish a’ had sich a chance.”

“Will you wash Jewel for me, there’s a good girl?”

“No, a’ won’t,” cried Polly, standing on her dignity. “Sich jobs belong to Lunnon servants. Us country folk be above stooping to sich dirty work. A’ wud put soap inter’s eyes, ‘an choak um’, by letting the water get down un’s throat.”

“Get me some warm water then, an’ a piece of soap,” said Martha sulkily.

“Yer must get it yersel, for a’ must hurry up with the taters.”

The crafty Martha found for once, the simple country girl had got the master of her.

“Never mind,” thought she; “I will make her wash him yet.”

When Polly returned to the kitchen, she found her London friend on her knees beside the keeler, in which she generally washed her dishes, cleansing the dust from Jewel’s woolly coat. The dog looked a pitiful spectacle shivering in the water, his hair out of curl and clinging to his pink skin.

“What an objeckt he do look,” said Polly. “A’ never seed any think so ridiculus. Why do’ant yer let the poor beast alone?”

“He’s a pest, I hate and detest him,” said Martha giving the poodle a vicious shake, “but the job has to be done. Give me a cloth to rub him dry, and hand me that basket to put him in.”

“Why do you put ‘um in the basket?” asked the wondering Polly.

“Till he gets dry by the fire, or else he would crawl among the ashes and make himself as dirty as ever.”

“Well, I hope our Pincher won’t find him out. He’d toomble ow’r the basket, an’ chaw him up in a minit.”

“I should like to see him do it,” said Martha, more in earnest than joke. “He would get what would keep him quiet, I think. Who’s that plain dark girl, Polly,” she said, looking up from the dog, “that your old mistress calls Dorothy?”

“A plain dark gal. Miss Dolly plain. All the gentlemen calls her a booty. A’s a great sight handsomer than yer mistrus, wi’ her low forehead that ha’ scarce room for her eyebrows. Sich small cunning looking eyes, an’ a nose as long as the pump handel, an’ thin sich a big bony cross looking mouth. I ‘spose yer think she be handsomer than our dear Miss Dorothy.”

“Well, I did not say that; two blacks don’t make a white,” and Martha laughed heartily. “I never said she was a beauty, and I only wish she heard you describe her. She has a very low mean forehead, not like mine that the gentleman who visited our Institution said was magnificent.”

“Doth that mean bold an’ imperdent?” said Polly.

“Do you think I look bold and impudent?” Martha was on her feet in a moment, her eyes flashing, and her fists half clenched.

“I thought that wor what yer meant by magnificent, I do’ant understan yer fine Lunnon words,” and Polly looked at her companion’s angry face, with the utmost innocence.

“You are a poor ignorant creature,” returned Martha. “My parents gave me a good education, and nature a fine intellect. I need not care for what you think of me.”

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

VOLUME III.

CHAPTER I.

MRS. GILBERT RUSHMERE.

The dinner was so well cooked, and so nicely served, that in spite of the unusual hour, Mrs. Rowly and her daughter made a very hearty meal.

Mrs. Rushmere’s easy chair had been drawn to the head of the table, and Dorothy sat beside her and carved, Gilbert being unable at present to cut his own food. Dorothy longed to do it for him, when she observed how unwillingly his wife performed this necessary service.

“I am a great trouble to you, Sophy,” he said; “but directly my arm is healed, I shall soon learn to help myself, as I have seen others do, who had met with the same misfortune.”

“It is a good thing to have a wife to help you,” suggested Mrs. Rowly.

“Yes, but it makes a fellow feel so dependent. He has to submit through sheer necessity to petticoat government.”

“A’ don’t think that even one arm would make me do that,” said Rushmere, “tho’ I believe a’ had the best wife in Christendom.”

Mrs. Rushmere laughed good-naturedly.

“Oh, Lawrence, men be often under their wives’ government, an’ as ignorant of the fact as babies.”

“You speak, I suppose, from experience,” said Mrs. Gilbert, in her gentle low voice. “I should have thought the old gentleman a very difficult person for any wife to manage. I find Gilbert a hard case, in spite of his one arm.”

“There’s only one way to rule me, and that’s by kindness,” returned Gilbert.

Without meaning it, perhaps, his voice assumed a serious tone, almost amounting to sadness. He looked up, and his eyes and Dorothy’s met; forcing an appearance of gaiety, he said, “What have you to say on the subject, Dorothy?”

“I never give an opinion on subjects I know nothing about. I am the only person in the room who cannot speak from experience. I should think your plan, however, must be the best.”

“It is a pity you have not an opportunity of trying it, Miss, What’s your name,” said Mrs. Gilbert, “in which case you might perhaps find out that kindness can be thrown away.”

“I expected to find Dorothy married when I came home,” said Gilbert. “I thought it impossible that the young fellows in the neighbourhood could suffer her to remain single.”

“She waited for you, Gilly, till she found it o’ no use,” cried Rushmere passing the bottle to his son.

“Oh that I had waited for her,” was the thought that flashed through Gilbert’s mind, charged with a deep regret.

“Father will have his joke,” said Dorothy, colouring like a rose, “without thinking that it may be at the expense of another.”

Mrs. Gilbert left off eating, and listened keenly to what was passing.

“Believe me, Gilbert, that there is no one present who congratulates you more sincerely on your marriage than I do.”

“My dear child, will you help me up stairs?” said Mrs. Rushmere, apprehensive of mischief from her husband’s blunt indiscretion and want of delicacy.

Gilbert rose, and with his left arm supported her to the foot of the stairs. “Oh, Dorothy,” he said, “no wonder that you despise me. God only knows how I despise myself.”

“It is too late to repent now, Gilbert. You must try like me to forget. You owe it to your wife, as much as to me.”

She passed her arm round Mrs. Rushmere’s waist, and left Gilbert at the foot of the stairs. He put the cuff of his empty sleeve to his eyes. Was it to wipe away a tear?

His wife looked daggers at him, when he returned to the table. His father proposed a walk round the farm after dinner, an invitation that Gilbert eagerly accepted, and the mother and daughter were left alone together.

“We shall have a nice time of it here,” said Mrs Gilbert. “Let us go out, mother, and take a look round the premises. One might as well be in a prison as confined to this dark, dingy room.”

“I can see no garden attached to the place,” said Mrs. Rowly, looking out of the deep bay window which only opened upon the stone-paved court. “That girl who helped at dinner could tell us all about it.”

“Don’t call her, mamma, I have a perfect horror of that woman. I am certain that Gilbert and she have been very intimate. He never took his eyes off her during dinner.”

“You need not be jealous of her, Sophy; I am certain that she cares nothing for him. You are foolish to trouble your head with any love affairs he had previous to his marriage.”

“But I am sure he cares for her, and I don’t mean to play second fiddle in his father’s house to any one but Mrs. Rushmere. If this girl remains in the house I must quit it.”

“And would you like to nurse the sick mother?”

“I hate sick people. Let her hire a nurse.”

“She may not be able to do that. I see no indications of wealth here. A carpetless sanded floor, and furniture old enough to have come out of the ark. One room which serves for drawing-room, dining-room and parlour. I dare say these poor people have enough to do to keep themselves.”

“But Gilbert said that his father was rich.”

“Pshaw! You see now Gilbert has exaggerated matters.”

“But what are we to do? I can’t and won’t live here.”

“Till your debts are paid, you must.”

“Oh, dear, I wish I were single again,” and Mrs. Gilbert began to cry.

“Sophy, when you were single you were never contented, always lamenting that you were not married. No one ever asked you to marry until I gave out that you would have a fortune.”

“And what have I gained by that lie?”

“A handsome, honest fellow, if you would only think so. He would not have been so badly off either, if he had not been forced to sell his commission to pay your debts. He had a fair chance too, of rising in the army, if he had not met with that misfortune. I think you very unreasonable to throw all the blame on him. What now remains for you to do, is to make yourself agreeable to his parents, and secure a home, such as it is, for us.”

“I can’t pretend to like that old man,” and Sophy shrugged her shoulders.

“He’s rather an amusing variety of the species,” said Mrs. Rowly, “and the easiest person in the world to cajole. But once more, let me tell you, Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere, it is no use quarrelling with your bread and butter. Put on your hat, and let us take a turn in the open air, perhaps we may chance to meet the gentlemen.”

And now they are gone to spy out the nakedness of the land we will tell our readers a little of their private history, and how the young soldier was deceived in his fortune-hunting speculation.

Mrs. Rowly was the widow of a custom-house officer, and for many years lived very comfortably, nay, affluently, upon the spoils which he gathered illegally in his office. Their only child, Sophia, though very far from pretty, was a genteel-looking girl, and educated at a fashionable boarding-school; but just as she arrived at womanhood, the father was detected in his unlawful pursuits, and so heavily fined, that it caused his utter ruin, and having incurred heavy debts to keep up an appearance beyond his station, he ended his days in prison, leaving his wife and daughter to shift for themselves in the best manner they could.

With the assistance of a brother, who was in the grocery line of business, and of whom they had always been ashamed in their more prosperous days, Mrs. Rowly set up a small boarding-house, in one of the little cross streets in the Minories, and just contrived to keep her head above water for several years, until Sophia was turned of seven-and-twenty. The young lady dressed and flirted, and tried her best to get a husband, but all her endeavours proved futile.

She was ambitious, too, of marrying a gentleman, and looked down with contempt upon shopkeepers’ assistants, clerks in lawyers’ offices, and mechanics, until the time had nearly slipped by when she could hope, without fortune, to marry at all.

It was then that her mother, finding herself deeply involved, circulated the report in her neighbourhood, that Sophy had been left six thousand pounds on the death of a cousin, a consumptive boy, who could not reasonably be expected to live many months.

The bait took. Miss Rowly was invited to houses she never before had hoped to enter; and at a ball, given by the mother of an officer in Gilbert’s regiment, she met the handsome young man, just raised to the rank of a subaltern, who had so gallantly saved the life of Captain Fitzmorris.

Though still rather countrified in his appearance, she was instantly smitten by his frank, free manners, and his fine manly figure. Some foolish fellow, in the shape of a friend, whispered in Gilbert’s ear that the young lady would have a fortune. In a rash moment, when a little heated by wine, and won by her soft flatteries, he made her an offer of marriage. This was instantly accepted, particularly as Gilbert, boy-like, had boasted of his old ancestral home, and the noble family from which he was descended. And besides all this, he was an officer in the army, and likely to rise in his profession, under the patronage of a wealthy nobleman like Lord Wilton. Miss Rowly was charmed with her future prospects.

Gilbert proposed to take her down to Hadstone as his wife, directly the campaign was over. But his charming Sophia was too fearful of losing him during that indefinite period, and got her mother to propose to him that they should be married before he left for Spain, and that she would accompany him abroad.

They were married; but the affectionate bride, when the time for his departure drew nigh, forgot this part of her promise, and preferred staying at home with her mother, to encountering all the hardships attendant upon a soldier’s wife, whose husband was on actual service in a foreign land.

During his absence, Mrs. Gilbert and her mother enjoyed every comfort on the credit of their supposed fortune; and when he returned sick and disabled from Spain, he had not been many days at Mrs. Rowly’s before he was arrested for the debts his wife had contracted since their marriage.

It was then that Gilbert discovered what a dupe he had been; that the woman he had taken to his bosom was a miserable deceiver; and he had to sell his commission to avoid the horrors of a prison.

After much recrimination and mutual upbraidings on the part of Gilbert and his wife, they at last came to the conclusion that it was useless to quarrel over what could no longer be remedied; that it was far better to sit down calmly and consider what was to be done.

All Mrs. Rowly’s furniture had been seized and sold for the benefit of her creditors, for she was as deeply involved as her daughter.

“Why can’t we go home to your father’s?” asked Mrs. Rowly. “I am sure your parents will be glad to see you.”

Gilbert had some doubts on that head. He knew how he had deserted them; and never having received a line from them, to assure him of their forgiveness, (though this had been his own fault, in omitting to tell them where and how to direct him,) he was sadly at a loss how to act.

And then he thought of Dorothy, and wondered if she were unmarried, and living still with the old people. If so, how should he be able to meet her, and introduce her to the cold selfish woman he had preferred to her? No, he could not, he dared not go back to Hadstone.

“Why don’t you answer, Gilbert?” urged his wife. “What prevents you from going home?”

“I parted with my father in anger. I am doubtful, for he is an obstinate man, whether he will be willing to receive us.”

“Don’t put him to the trial,” said Mrs. Rowly. “Let Sophy write, and tell him we are coming, and start without giving him time to send a refusal. We must go somewhere; to remain here is impossible, for you cannot draw your pension for the next six months, and we cannot live upon air.”

Gilbert was terribly perplexed. While pride forbade him to seek an asylum with his parents, necessity compelled him to do so, and though he now almost loathed both his wife and her mother, he was too manly to leave them in distress.

He therefore sold his watch, his sword and regimental suit, to procure money to prosecute their journey; and when he arrived at Hadstone, he had only a few shillings left in his purse.

The kind reception he met with cut him to the heart, and the sight of that beautiful girl, who might have been his, almost maddened him with grief and remorse.

When he proposed that walk with his father, he fully intended to open his mind to him, and tell him how he was situated, but shame and pride kept him tongue tied. Besides, was it not his father’s fault that he had not married the woman he loved; and could he expect an avaricious man to sympathize with him in the misery he endured, or feel for his present poverty and degradation. So he walked by his father’s side over the old fields that had witnessed his labours with Dorothy, without saying a word upon the subject nearest his heart. It was with feelings of inward disgust that he saw his wife and her mother coming over the heath to meet them.

CHAPTER II.

HOW PEOPLE ARE TAUGHT TO HATE ONE ANOTHER.

Mrs. Rowly had been chiding her daughter for showing her temper before her husband’s family, pointing out the imprudence of her conduct in such forcible language, that the young lady had promised to behave more cautiously for the future.

She greeted Mr. Rushmere with her blandest smile, and, slipping the little white hand within his arm, told him in her softest voice, “that he must teach her all about farming, as she did not know wheat from barley, or a pig from a calf.”

“Lord bless your ignorance, my dear. In what part o’ the world were you raised?”

“Oh, I’m a cockney, born within the sound of Bow Bells. What else can you expect of me? I never was out of London before. I am afraid I shall rival the renowned citizen, who immortalized himself by finding out that a cock neighed. I don’t think however that I could be quite so foolish as that.”

Old Rushmere was highly flattered by the attention paid to him by his daughter-in-law. He complimented her upon her sweet little hand and foot, and told her that he envied Gilbert his pretty wife.

Though, if the truth must be spoken, young Mrs. Rushmere had no beauty of which to boast, beyond a slight graceful figure, and the small hands and feet which had attracted the farmer’s attention. Her face was something worse than plain. It was a cold, arrogant, deceitful face, with harsh, strongly marked features, and a pair of long narrow eyes, that never looked honestly or openly at any one, reminding you of some stealthy animal, ever on the watch for a deadly spring.

She loved to say things that she knew would annoy and irritate, in a cold-blooded contemptuous way, and under those half closed eyelids lurked any amount of malice and low cunning.

Though weak in intellect and very vain, she was as obstinate as a mule, and, though moving in a different position from Martha Wood, there was a great congeniality of disposition between them.

Sophia Rushmere was a petty tyrant. Martha Wood, though less cold and calculating than her mistress, knew how to rule over her, and make her a tool and a slave. The pair were well worthy of each other.

Mrs. Rushmere, though simple and natural as a child, had read Sophia’s character at a glance. She looked in that dubious face, and felt that it was false. She listened to that low, soft studied voice, and was convinced that the owner could speak in far other and less musical tones, and she wondered how Gilbert could have taken this artificial woman in preference to her Dorothy, and the good mother pitied him from her very heart.

Mrs. Rowly, though sharp and angular, with a ridiculous assumption of consequence, was not so disagreeable as her daughter. She looked like a person who could speak her mind, and that in the coarsest and most decided manner, and carry her point against overwhelming odds, by sheer pretence and impudence, but she could not conceal, like Sophia, her real disposition. If she betrayed like Judas for money, it would not be with a kiss.

“What do you think of my poor Gilbert’s wife?” said Mrs. Rushmere to Dorothy, that afternoon, as the latter sat beside her bed.

“Don’t ask me, dear mother. I have no opinion to give.”

“He is an unhappy man, Dorothy, as all men deserve to be, who sell themselves for money. He had better ha’ died in yon battle, than tied himself to that woman.”

Dorothy thought so too, but she gave no expression to her thoughts. She merely remarked, “that the marriage might turn out better than Mrs. Rushmere expected.”

The meeting between Dorothy and her lover had been less painful than she had anticipated. She no longer regretted the separation which had occasioned her so much anguish, but fervently thanked God that his providence had so ordered it, and she knew from the deep sense of gratitude that overflowed her heart, that it was for the best; that Gilbert Rushmere, though greatly improved in his appearance and manners, was not the man to make her happy.

The enlargement of her own mind, and the society of intelligent people, had made her crave for something higher and better, mentally and morally, than he could ever bestow. She entertained for him much of the old sisterly affection which she felt for him when they were boy and girl, but nothing beyond.

She did not like his wife, but excused the hostility of her manner towards herself. If she had been made aware of the relation which once existed between her and Gilbert, she thought it perfectly natural. Placed in the same situation as Mrs. Gilbert, she might feel a little jealous of an old love too. In this opinion, Dorothy greatly underrated the high sense of moral rectitude which actuated her general conduct. Under the greatest provocation she would have despised herself for wantonly wounding the feelings of another.

She longed to leave the house, for she dreaded the insolence of Mrs. Gilbert and her mother; but Mrs. Rushmere had so pathetically entreated her to stay and nurse her, that she felt that it would be the height of ingratitude to refuse a last request made by a dying friend, and of one to whom she owed so much.

She wanted to go and consult Mrs. Martin, who would point out the best course to pursue in avoiding unpleasant collisions with Gilbert’s friends, but she was kept so fully employed, that no opportunity presented itself.

In the meanwhile, Martha Wood had not been idle in the kitchen; by the dint of cajoling and flattering Polly, she had wormed out of her some of the family secrets, which she lost no time in turning into capital. When called by her mistress to attend her to her chamber at night, she came with a face full of importance, as if she had something very particular to communicate.

“Well, Martha, how have you got through the day?” cried Mrs. Gilbert, opening her eyes a little wider than usual, as her confidant approached to undress her.

“Oh, badly enough, ma’am; that Polly Welton is a horrid low creature, not above six months out of the workhouse.”

“You ought to have a fellow feeling for her, Martha,” said Mrs. Gilbert spitefully.

“I was not a workhouse bird, Mrs. Rushmere,” returned Martha, swelling and puffing out her broad cheeks. “You know that well enough. My father was a gentleman, and I was brought up at a private institution, at his expense.”

“You need not try to fool me about that, Martha. You have attempted often enough, but it won’t go down. Your father might, or might not have been a gentleman. You were a natural child, and your mother a poor creature, who got her living on the streets. So no more of your fine airs to me. What have you been doing with yourself all day?”

“Sitting in the kitchen nursing Jewel,” said the girl, with a sulky scowl.

“You might have been doing something. Why did not you offer to help the girl wash the dishes?”

“When you are mistress here, I will do what you bid me. I have no call to wait upon them.”

“But they will not keep you for nothing, Martha.”

“I don’t want them. If you are not satisfied, give me my release and let me go. I could soon get a better place.”

“Nonsense! You must do as I bid you, and see that you help that girl Polly in her work to-morrow.”

“You would not wish me to help her, if you knew all the vile things she said of you,” replied Martha, in an audible aside.

“Of me! What could she say of me? She knows nothing of me or my affairs.”

“She did not say she did. But she said that you were old and ugly, and not to be compared with Miss Dolly. That you had not a single good feature in your face. What do you think of the picture?”

“The wretch! But how came she to say all this?”

“Just because I asked her who the plain dark girl was that Mrs. Rushmere called Dorothy. She fired up, like a vulgar vixen as she is, and defended her friend by abusing you. I thought we should have come from words to blows, for I could not sit by and hear my own mistress abused after that fashion. But if you wish me to help her of course I can.”

“I’ll tell Gilbert. I’ll complain to Mr. Rushmere,” sobbed Sophia, crying for rage. “If he suffers me to be insulted by his servant I’ll leave the house. I’ve no doubt that Dorothy is at the bottom of it all—who, and what is she?”

“Some child that Mrs. Rushmere adopted years ago. Polly told me, that it was for love of her that Mr. Gilbert ran away and listed for a soldier, because the old man would not give his consent, and this Dorothy refused to marry him.”

Mrs. Gilbert’s misery was now complete. She sat down in a chair, with her fair hair all loose about her shoulders, staring at the incendiary in a wild vacant manner. At this unfortunate moment, Gilbert entered the room. Hurrying up to his wife, he demanded the cause of her distress.

“Are you a man, Gilbert Rushmere?” she said, slowing rising and confronting him, “to allow your wife to be insulted by your father’s menials?”

“How, and in what manner, Sophy?” She repeated the tale of her wrongs as Martha had told them. Gilbert’s eye flashed—he turned them angrily upon Martha, who was secretly enjoying the mischief she had made.

“Go to your bed, girl, and let me never hear any of this vile tattling again. It is such stories, carried from one to the other, that ruin the peace of families.”

Martha knew that the arrows she had launched had struck home, and left the room without a word in her defence.

Gilbert turned sorrowfully to his wife, who was crying violently.

“Sophy, if you will encourage that girl in bringing you tales about other members of the family, how can we ever live in peace? You know the imperative necessity of curbing your temper, until I am able in some way to provide a living for you. Why will you frustrate all my plans for your comfort by this childish folly?”

“How dare you talk to me, sir, in that strain; when you had the dastardly cruelty of bringing me down here to live in the same house as your former mistress?” She rose and stood before him, with her hand raised in a menacing attitude, and a smile of scorn writhing her lip.

“Good heavens! Sophia, what do you mean?”

“I mean what I say, sir. It is useless for you to deny facts so apparent. Will you have the assurance to say to me that you do not love this girl—this Dorothy Chance?”

“The love I once felt for her? Certainly not.”

“The love you still feel for her?” demanded the angry wife.

“Sophia, I am a married man.”

“Yes, sir, I know it to my cost. But that is no answer to my question. I despise the hypocritical evasion. You know in your heart that you prefer this woman to your wife.”

“You will force me to do so, Sophia, if you go on at this unreasonable rate. You must be aware that Dorothy Chance was brought up with me under this roof, and it was natural that I should feel something more than brotherly love for a creature so beautiful and good.”

“Stop! Hold your tongue. I won’t hear another word,” screamed Sophy. “Such a confession is enough to drive me mad.”

“It has nothing to do with you, wife. All this is past and gone, and happened before ever I saw you. If my father would have given his consent to our marriage, you would never have been so unfortunate as to become my wife, and I should never have been tricked into the belief that you loved me, and were a woman of fortune.” He laughed bitterly, for he saw that this latter observation had completely silenced his wife, who slowly and sullenly retreated towards the bed; and he continued:

“My love for Dorothy, at that time, was a species of madness. I loved her with all my heart and soul, with every faculty of mind and body. She was young, gay, and light-hearted, and, I thought, returned my passion very coldly. I was impatient of delay, and very jealous. I urged her to marry me without waiting for the old man’s consent. She had promised him not to do so, and stood to her word, refusing my hand before his very face.

“My God! shall I ever forget the mortification and rage of that moment. I could have killed her. My red-hot love turned to ice. I left the house wishing never to see her face again, and, perhaps, had I known that she was still here, I never should have thrown myself in her way. Are you satisfied now, Sophia? I think you ought to be, after such a degrading confession.”

His wife did not answer, though she heard every word. She had slipped into bed and pretended to be sound asleep.

CHAPTER III.

A DEAD DOG.

Before Gilbert went to sleep that night, he fully determined to tell his father the real state of his affairs, and throw himself and his family upon his charity, until something should enable him to get a decent living. The loss of his arm was a great drawback, he well knew; but he had the reputation of being an excellent practical farmer, which made him entertain strong hopes of being employed as a bailiff, or overseer, on some gentleman’s estate.

He trusted that Lord Wilton would assist him in procuring such a situation, and, probably, would employ him on his own property, in return for the service he had rendered his son.

He knew that his father was a close calculator of domestic expenditure; that he would soon be tired of keeping such a large addition to his family, without receiving an equivalent from them in money or services. He might grumble now and then of having to board him and his wife gratis; but the additional expense of Mrs. Rowly and the servant, for any length of time, would make him outrageous.

In everything pertaining to household matters, Sophia was as ignorant as a child. She had been brought up to catch a rich husband, not to soil her pretty white hands with work, to spend her time before the glass in adorning her person, or to lie on a sofa reading novels. He had urged her, before leaving London, to part with Martha, but she obstinately refused to do so.

“The idea of waiting upon herself,” she said, “was not to be tolerated for a moment. Martha’s term of apprenticeship had not expired, and she was bound to keep her. And as to dear mamma, she must accompany them, for she had no money to procure a lodging elsewhere.”

What was to be done with such impracticable people, was beyond Gilbert’s power to devise. He turned and tossed all night, and the day broke and found him as undecided as ever.

In the morning he walked out after breakfast to the hay-field with his father, and had an excellent opportunity of getting the trouble that perplexed him off his mind, but his courage failed him altogether, and he put off the dreaded disclosure that he was utterly destitute from day to day.

His wife at last suggested that he had better tell his mother, and leave it to her to break the matter to Mr. Rushmere, entreating him, at the same time, to spare her in the relation as much as he possibly could.

Since the day of their arrival at Heath Farm, Mrs. Rushmere had rapidly declined, and was now entirely confined to her own room, which Dorothy never left, without it was to arrange with Polly the cooking and the necessary work of the day.

Gilbert generally went up to spend an hour with his mother during the absence of her kind nurse, and in one of these interviews, he informed her of his humiliating position, and implored her advice and assistance in his present emergency.

Mrs. Rushmere was greatly distressed by his communication. Simple and natural as a child herself, she possessed a great insight into character, and though she seldom saw either of the women with whom her son had unfortunately connected himself, she had read their characters, and foresaw, in case of her death, the miserable life that her dear old partner would lead with either of them as mistress of the house.

Dorothy, of course, would have to leave, directly she had followed her to the grave. She reproached herself for keeping the poor girl in her present disagreeable position, but Dorothy had promised her to put up with every insult and slight patiently for her sake, and Mrs. Rushmere rightly conjectured that the time of her emancipation was not far distant.

“Well, my poor son, I will speak to your father about this sad business. You must not be impatient, if he feels angry and resentful. I know how he rejoiced in the idea of your being a rich man. This will be a cruel disappointment to him.”

“Oh, mother dear, it was his fault. Had he been only a little less avaricious, I might at this moment have been a happy man.” He laid his head beside her on the pillow, and wept like a child.

That night, Mr. Rushmere was duly informed of the communication Gilbert had made to his mother. He had, however, carefully concealed the duplicity of his wife, with regard to the fortune, by saying that she had fully believed that she was to be heir to her uncle’s property, and was as much disappointed as himself. Old Rushmere sat for some time beside his wife’s bed astonished and almost stupefied.

“Oh, dang it, wife,” he broke out at last, “this is a confounded bad business, and ruination to us all. To think that the boy should be sich a simple fool, to go an’ marry a woman older nor himself without being sure o’ the money. Sold his commission too, and to pay her debts—worse and worse—an’ nothing but the pension for his wound to depend on to keep his wife an’ mother from starving. Well, well, that ever Lawrence Rushmere should be father to such a simpleton.”

“Lawrence,” and Mrs. Rushmere took the large brown hand of her husband between her thin pale hands, “you must forgive him for my sake.”

“Dang it, wife. How am I going to keep all this posse o’ people. It’s unreasonable, that it be; a’ won’t do it.”

“He be your only son, Lawrence, all that will soon be left to you o’ me.”

“Oh, Mary, you are not going to leave me, not yet, not yet. A few more years and then we must both go. But oh, not yet, not yet, my dear, good wife. Get hearty and well, and old Larry will do all you require o’ him.” The stout old yeoman bent over the pillow, and kissed the pale meek face of his wife, and the tears from her gentle blue eyes.

“Well, Larry, dear, you must do this for me whiles I be living. Give your son an’ his family a home, until such time as poor Gilly’s arm’s healed, an’ he be able to help himself. You are not a poor man, husband, an’ can spare this much for an only son. An’ remember he might have done better if ye would only ha’ let him.”

“Aye, I’m sorry for that now. Doll would have made him a better wife than his butterfly o’ a woman. If so be, I have to keep her, Gilly must set her to work, an’ the old mother likewise. I’m not going to keep a house full o’ sarvants to wait upon them.”

“Neighbour Sly wants a girl, an’ will take Polly off your hands, Lawrence, an’ this Martha Wood can fill her place. But leave me Dorothy, my darling Dorothy, till I be gone. It won’t be long.”

On the whole, Rushmere behaved better than could be expected. At dinner, he told Gilbert that his mother had informed him of his troubles, and he was willing to take him as partner in the farm; he was to manage the concern and dispose of all the produce, sharing the returns equally with him.

Dorothy looked earnestly at the old man, when he made this proposal. She knew enough of human nature to feel convinced that it would never work well. That old Rushmere would never consent to act under the direction of his son, and that his labourers, who were very fond of him, would never serve two masters. But her influence for good in that house was over. Advice or remonstrance with a man of Rushmere’s obstinate character was alike vain.

Gilbert was profuse in his expressions of gratitude, which were echoed by the ladies.

“And now, my dear,” said the old man, turning to Mrs. Gilbert, “I can’t afford to keep idle folk. What can you do for a living; can you cook?”

“I never was brought up to kitchen work, father,” returned Mrs. Gilbert, in a very bland voice, “but I can try.”

“Dolly can teach you.”

“I shan’t trouble her,” muttered the newly installed mistress of the house. “A woman of sense surely may acquire a knowledge of such trifling matters without any particular instructions.”

“Ah, my dear, but it requires experience,” said Rushmere. “It don’t want a person to be able to read an’ write, to brew good ale an’ make sweet butter, an’ bake light bread; but it do want practical knowledge o’ such work, as Dorothy here can tell you. She be a first rate housekeeper.”

“You need not refer me to Dorothy Chance, Mr. Rushmere, while my own mother is present. She always was considered a capital manager.”

“I dessay, I dessay,” quoth Rushmere, nodding pleasantly towards the lady in question. “Mrs. Rowly looks like a woman well acquainted with work, an’ it would be strange if you could not manage the house an’ dairy between you.”

“I think, Mr. Rushmere, there will be no occasion to employ so many hands in the kitchen,” said Mrs. Rowly, glancing significantly at Dorothy. “Surely my daughter and Martha, with the assistance I can give them, ought to be sufficient.”

“Certainly, certainly,” cried old Rushmere, “those be exactly my sentiments, ma’am. Too many cooks spoil the broth. Polly goes, when her month expires, to Mrs. Sly’s; an’ Dorothy, when my dear old wife–-” The farmer stopped short. He could not finish the sentence.

“Cannot I nurse Mrs. Rushmere?” said Mrs. Rowly. “I have had a great deal of experience in that way.”

“No doubt you could,” said Rushmere. “Howsomever she won’t suffer any one to help her but Dorothy.”

“I shall leave you, father, the moment my services are no longer required,” said Dorothy. “I have a good home and kind friends to go to. It is only on dear mother’s account that I have remained so long. I shall gladly resign to Mrs. Gilbert my place in the house.”

The next morning, on going into the kitchen, Dorothy found Mrs. Gilbert and her mother up to their eyes in business, examining the contents of cupboards and pantries, and making a great litter and confusion everywhere.

She was told when she offered her assistance in restoring the place to order, that her services were not required by Mrs. Gilbert, whom she must now consider as mistress of the house, that she must not presume to interfere with Martha Wood and her work, but confine herself entirely to Mrs. Rushmere’s chamber.

And Mrs. Gilbert commenced her reign over Heath Farm, by treating Dorothy and Polly as creatures beneath her notice, and decidedly in the way, while she encouraged Martha in her mischievous tattling, until she set Polly and her by the ears together.

Old Rushmere grumbled over the badly cooked dinners, the heavy bread and sour butter, and blamed Dorothy for what certainly she could not help.

One morning Dorothy went down into the kitchen to prepare a little broth for the poor invalid. The fire was out, and everything in the greatest confusion. A greasy unwashed floor and dirty towels, and dusters scattered around on tables and chairs. It was impossible to get the least thing done without worry and difficulty.

“Polly,” she said very gently, “while you remain here you should do your duty to your employers. Why is your kitchen so dirty, and your fire always out, when I want to cook broth or gruel for your poor sick mistress? Things should not be in this disgraceful condition, and you have Martha to help you.”

“Martha help me. Lauk, Miss Dorothy, she be no help to a body, she make all the dirt and muddle she can. She do take my nice white dish keeler to wash her missus’ dirty dawg. I can’t prevent her. I says to her only yesterday, if a’ do that agen, I’ll tell Miss Dorothy. ‘Go to the devil,’ says she, ‘with yer. Miss Dorothy she be no missus o’ mine. Mrs. Gilbert’s missus here now. I’d like to hear Doll Chance dare to set me to work.’ My heart’s a breakin’ wi’ her dirty ways and her saucy impertinence. I’m right glad I’m going to-morrow; the old house a’nt like it wor.”

“But this don’t excuse you, Polly, for letting the fire out.”

“Mrs. Gilbert told me hersel to let the fire go down directly the breakfus wor over. ‘Miss Dorothy wull want it,’ says I, ‘to make the old missus her broth.’ ‘Let her want,’ says she, ‘or make it hersel. I don’t mean to attend to her wants, I can tell you.’”

“Alas, alas!” sighed Dorothy, “what a house of misrule. Poor old father, how will it be with him by and bye, when they begin to abuse their power so early?”

Like the sailors, she saw breakers ahead, but had no power to steer the vessel off the rocks.

“Missus Gilbert,” continued Polly, glad of getting some one to whom she could tell her griefs, “is allers jawing me, for not doing the work. But while her fat lazy girl sits doing naught, but towzleing the dawg, I’m not a’ goin to kill mysel wi’ work.”

“Bear it patiently for a few hours, Polly. You will soon be free now. Run, there’s a good girl to the woodstack, and bring some sticks to rekindle the fire.”

In a few minutes, Polly rushed back to the kitchen, and flung an arm full of sticks down with a bang upon the hearth that could be heard all over the house, and holding up her hands cried out at the top of her voice. “A’s been an’ gone an’ done it. I knew a’ wud, directly a’ got a chance.”

“Done what?” demanded Dorothy, her cheeks blanching with terror.

“Ow’r Pincher ha’ chawed up yon lump o’ white wool.”

“Killed Mrs. Gilbert’s little poodle?”

“Ah, as dead as a door nail.”

“I am sorry for it, very sorry. She will make an awful fuss about it, Polly. Did you see Pincher do it?”

“No, but Martha says a’ did it. She oughter to know. See, she be coming in, crying an’ roaring as if it wor a dead child.”

Martha ran into the kitchen carrying the dead dog in her arms, screaming and shouting in a state of great excitement.

“Oh the precious Jewel? the darling pet! What will my mistress say? How shall I tell her? Oh, oh, oh.”

Hearing from the next room the outcries of her servant, Mrs. Gilbert hurried in and demanded what all the noise was about.

“Oh, ma’am, just look here at your beautiful dog,” sobbed Martha, holding up the little creature, from whose throat the blood was dripping all over the floor.

“Who has dared to ill use my dog?” cried Sophy Rushmere, not yet aware he was dead, and she turned and glared at Polly with the ferocity of a tigress.

“Oh, he is dead!” screamed Martha, “stone dead.”

“Who killed him?”

“The horrid brute Pincher.”

“Call Mr. Gilbert to shoot the monster.”

“A’ can’t do it, ma’am,” said Polly, very innocently. “A’ ha’ got but one arm.”

“Hold your tongue you impudent jade. I have no doubt you set the other dog to worry him.” Mrs. Gilbert took the dead dog in her arms and cried aloud.

Dorothy went up to her, and very kindly offered to examine the little animal, and ascertain whether he was really dead.

“Don’t touch him!” screamed Sophy, pushing her rudely away. “I dare say you are glad of his death, and know more about it than you choose to say.”

Dorothy drew back with an air of disgust. “I can excuse your grief and annoyance at the death of the poor dog, who was a pretty harmless little creature, but not your insulting those who never injured him. Perhaps if it were a fellow-creature, you would not feel the least distress about it.”

“Martha,” said Mrs. Gilbert, paying no heed to her, “go and call your master. I will be revenged on that ferocious beast. If he refuses to kill him, I will kill him myself.”

Dorothy became suddenly aware of the danger that threatened her old favourite.

“Good heavens!” she thought, “this cruel woman will never execute her threat. Gilbert will not suffer her to destroy the good old dog.”

“Mrs. Gilbert,” she said in a voice of entreaty, “I hope you do not mean to hurt the dog. It is the nature of these animals to quarrel and fight with each other. The death of Pincher would do you no good, while it would greatly distress Mrs. Rushmere, who loves the dog.”

“Oh, I suppose you care nothing about him, when I see you feeding and caressing him every day. You have no regard for my feelings. There was nothing in the world I loved so well as my dog.”

“Not even your husband, Sophy?” said Gilbert, who just then came in. “Now don’t expect me to be very sorry for the death of my rival. When Martha came running to me in the field, I thought something terrible had happened.”

“Could anything be worse?” sobbed his wife, kissing the head of her dead favourite. “If you have any regard for me, Gilbert, you will just go out and kill the hateful wretch that murdered him.”

“Kill Pincher! I would lose my other arm first.”

“God bless you, Gilbert!” cried Dorothy, with her eyes full of tears. “I felt certain you would never kill such an old friend.”

That speech, meant for his good, decided the fate of poor Pincher. A sinister smile passed over Mrs. Gilbert’s pale face. She dropped the body of Jewel upon the floor, and left the room.

After she was gone, Gilbert took up the animal and carefully examined the wound.

“Pincher never did this. The dog has been stabbed with a knife. The jugular vein is completely severed. I never cared much for the creature, who gave more trouble than a child, but it was a dastardly thing to do.”

“I saw Pincher do it,” said Martha, sulkily.

“You saw no such thing,” retorted her master. “It is a base lie. It is more likely you did it yourself.”

Martha gave way to a fresh burst of hysterical crying and ran upstairs to her mistress. Gilbert called Polly to fetch a spade and bury the dead dog in the garden.

“Martha,” said Mrs. Gilbert, as that worthy came into her chamber, “shut the door and come here to me. I will give you half a crown if you will hang the dog Pincher.”

“La, ma’am, keep your money. It’s Dorothy Chance’s dog, and I’ll hang him to spite her. She’s fonder of that ugly cur, than ever you were of Jewel. It will vex her dreadfully if anything happens amiss to him.”

“So much the better,” cried the amiable Sophia. “I shall then be revenged on them both.”

So Pincher was hung without judge or jury, as innocent of the crime for which he paid the penalty, as many a poor creature condemned upon circumstantial evidence had been before him.

Dorothy was the first to discover her old favourite, dangling from the low branch of an apple tree in the orchard. A cry of anguish and surprise brought Mr. Rushmere and Gilbert to the spot.

“Dolly, girl! What’s the matter?” cried the yeoman, “your face is as white as a sheet!”

Dorothy answered by pointing to the dog, and walked away to hide her tears.

Gilbert, hardly less distressed than herself, guessed the truth in a moment. His father, flew into a frenzy of passion, and threatened to inflict all sorts of punishment on the dastardly rascals who had killed his faithful brave old dog.

“A man would never have done it,” muttered Gilbert. “This is the work of a jealous woman.”

And he felt the deepest abhorrence for the author of the outrage.

CHAPTER IV.

DEATH IN ANOTHER SHAPE.

In the afternoon Mrs. Martin walked up to the farm to see Mrs. Rushmere and Dorothy, and to call upon their new friends. Dorothy had not been to the parsonage for three weeks, and her place at church and in the Sunday school had been vacant. Mr. Martin and his wife suspected that all was not right with Dorothy; that either her mother was worse, or that she was so fatigued with overwork that she was unable to attend to these important duties; both were convinced that Dorothy would never desert her post unless compelled to do so. Mrs. Martin had been confined to the house by the dangerous illness of little Johnnie, whom the doctor had only pronounced that day out of danger. Anxious as she was to learn in what manner Dorothy had borne the meeting with her lover, and whether his wife and mother were agreeable people, she had not been able to leave the sick-bed of her child to satisfy her natural curiosity. When Dorothy opened the door, she was startled by her pale face and altered appearance.

“My dear girl, are you ill?”

“Not ill—only heartsick, weary of the world and its ways. If it were not for the love of a few dear friends, I could leave it to-morrow without the least regret.”

As she said this, the poor girl looked so sadly and earnestly into Mrs. Martin’s face, that it brought the tears into her eyes.

“You must have thought that we had forsaken you altogether; but Johnnie has been very ill, alarmingly so; and I could not leave him to the care of the servant. Henry would have been up to see you, but since Mr. Fitzmorris has left us, every moment of his time has been occupied, as he is obliged to take the charge of both the parishes, with the additional care of the Sunday schools; I have been unable to attend my class, and your absence threw all the work upon him.”

“Mr. Fitzmorris gone?” Dorothy turned pale and almost gasped for breath. “What took him away?”

“A sad, sad accident. Did no one tell you of it.”

“My dear Mrs. Martin, how should I hear the news of the parish. I am confined all day, and sometimes during the greater part of the night, to my mother’s sick-room. But tell me about Mr. Fitzmorris; I have felt grieved and hurt at his seeming desertion of us, when Mrs. Rushmere grew so much worse. Is anything amiss with Lord Wilton?”

“His lordship has written once to his nephew, since he left England. In his letter he spoke very despondingly of the health of his son. Mr. Fitzmorris’ sudden departure from Hadstone had no reference to the Earl or his affairs. In truth, Dorothy, it is a sad tale. His brother is dead. Lost his life by a fall from his horse in a steeple chase. Mr. Fitzmorris was sent for in all haste. He started immediately, and though his brother was living when he arrived at –-, he was unconscious, and never recovered his senses before he died. Poor Mr. Fitzmorris feels this dreadfully, and keenly regrets that he was not able to prepare him for the awful change from time to eternity—that his brother should die in his sins among gamblers and men of the world, who had dissipated his fortune and led him astray.”

“It is dreadful!” said Dorothy. “I know how he feels it; I believe that if he could have saved his brother’s soul by the sacrifice of his own, he would have done it. But will he ever return to Hadstone?”

“Directly he can arrange his brother’s affairs, which are in a state of great confusion. His reckless extravagance has involved the estate, and Gerard is afraid, that when everything is sold, there will hardly be enough to satisfy the creditors. You know how honest and upright he is, and how it will pain him if he thought these people would suffer loss through any one belonging to him. He carries this romantic sense of honesty so far, that Henry is afraid that he will give up his property to pay these debts.”

“He is so noble! How I honour him for it!” cried Dorothy. “How cruel it was of me to blame him for neglect, when he was not only at the post of duty, but suffering such anguish of mind. How cautious we should be in judging the actions of others. I can scarcely forgive myself for harbouring against him an unkind thought.”

“And how is dear Mrs. Rushmere?” said her friend, anxious to turn the conversation into another channel, when she saw the big, bright tears that trembled on Dorothy’s eyelids.

“She is fast sinking. We may not hope to keep her here much longer. I read and pray with her whenever she is able to bear it. But, oh, dear Mrs. Martin, my reading and praying is so different from his! I did so long to see him and hear him again.”

“Do not look so despondingly, Dorothy. You will soon see him again. In the meanwhile, tell me about Gilbert, and how you met.”

“As friends—nothing more. I might add, scarcely as friends. I am so thankful that my heart was weaned from him months ago. I now marvel at myself how I ever could have felt for him the passionate affection I did, or how his desertion could plunge me into such intense grief.”

Mrs. Martin pressed her hand warmly.

“I expected as much. And his wife?”

“Don’t ask me what I think of her;” and Dorothy waved her hands impatiently.

“Your silence is eloquent, Dorothy. And when can you come to me?”

“When dear mother no longer requires my services. At times she suffers cruel agony, but she bears it with angelic patience. She will be delighted to see you.”

Dorothy led the way to the sick chamber. They found Mrs. Rushmere awake and in a very happy frame of mind; she greeted Mrs. Martin with unaffected pleasure, and talked cheerfully and hopefully of her approaching end. She made no comment on her son’s marriage, and scarcely alluded to his wife, expressing great thankfulness that she had been permitted to see Gilbert before she died.

“Dear Mrs. Martin,” she said, “I need scarcely ask you to be kind to Dorothy when she has no longer a mother to love and care for her, or a home here in which she can live in peace. A loving daughter she has been to me, a faithful and devoted nurse. The blessing she has been to me in this cruel and loathsome illness, the good God who gave her to me alone knows. That He may bless and reward her when I am in the clay is my constant prayer. May she never want a friend in her hour o’ need.”

Mrs. Martin stooped and kissed the pale earnest face of the dying woman.

“God will raise her up friends, never fear. The good Father never forsakes those who love and honour him.”

Mrs. Rushmere threw her arms about her visitor’s neck, and drew her head down to the pillow, while she whispered in her ear, “Take her out o’ this, Mrs. Martin, as soon as I am gone. These strange women are killing her with their hard, unfeeling ways. It is a’most breaking my poor heart to see the dear child pining day by day.”

“She will have her reward, my dear old friend, no one ever loses by suffering in a good cause.”

Mrs. Martin sat for some time with the invalid, and explained to her the cause why Mr. Fitzmorris and her husband had not been up to see her, and promised that Mr. Martin should visit her on the morrow. On inquiring of Martha Wood for Mrs. Rowly and her daughter, she was not sorry to learn that they had walked down to the village.

“In the humour I feel towards them,” she said to Dorothy, “I would rather that they made the acquaintance of my handwriting than of me.”

It was Dorothy’s practice to visit Mrs. Rushmere the first thing in the morning, and carry her a cup of tea before the inmates of the house were stirring. Mr. Rushmere slept in the same room with his wife, but, since her illness, occupied a separate bed. As Dorothy unclosed the chamber door, she was startled by a low, hoarse moaning, that seemed to proceed from the bed of the invalid. Alarmed at such an unusual occurrence, she hurried forward; the cup dropped from her hand, and, with a wild cry, she flung herself upon the bed, and clasped in her arms the still, pale figure that, for so many years, she had loved and honoured as her mother.

Mr. Rushmere was kneeling upon the floor, his face buried in the coverlid, holding in his trembling grasp the thin, white hand that no longer responded to the pressure.

“Mother! dear, blessed mother!” sobbed Dorothy, “speak to me again. One word, one little word. You must not leave me for ever without your love and blessing!”

“Alas! my child, she cannot, death has silenced the kind voice for ever,” groaned the stricken old man. “My wife! my precious wife! I never knew half your value until now. All that you were, and have been to me. Oh speak to me, Mary, my lost darling, smile once more upon me as in the happy days gone by. Say that you forgive your Larry for all that he has said and done amiss. You were allers an angel of kindness to a stern husband. I have been a hard man to you; but I loved you with my whole heart, though I could not allers tell you how dear you were.”

“She was quite sensible of your affection, dear father, and would grieve to hear you reproach yourself; we have all our faults of temper. Mother made every allowance for that. She knew how truly you loved her, that your heart was in the right place. How did she die?”

The old man raised his head, and looked long and fondly on the still calm face of his dead wife.

“Sleeping as you see her there, Dorothy, as sweet and peacefully as a little child. The Lord bless her. She was surely one o’ his gentle lambs. She generally spoke to me when the sun rose, an’ told me to call up the folk to their work. About half an hour ago, I heard her own dear voice call me three times. ‘Larry, Larry, Larry! it be time for thee to wake up out o’ sleep. The Lord calls upon thee to rise. The night is far spent, the morning is at hand in which thou must give to him an account of the deeds done in the flesh.’ I jump up, all in a cold sweat an’ cries out trembling all over with a deadly fear. ‘Mary, did’st thee call?’ An awful stillness filled the room. No answer came. The sun shone right upon the still pale face, an’ told me all. It was a voice from heaven that spoke, the dear angel had been dead for hours.”

Again his heart sank upon the coverlid, and the strong frame shook with the still stronger agony that mastered him. Dorothy thought it best to leave nature to deal with him, who is ever the best physician and comforter of the wounded heart, while she went to rouse the household, and take necessary steps to perform the last sad offices for the dead.

In a few minutes all was hurry and alarm, as the suddenly aroused inmates of the house rushed half-dressed into the chamber of death.

In vain Gilbert Rushmere tried to lead his father into another room; the heartbroken old man resisted every effort to separate him from his wife. The common-place condolences of Mrs. Rowly and her daughter were alike unheeded. It was useless to tell him that it was a merciful release from great suffering, that Mrs. Rushmere dying in her sleep had been saved the pain and agony of a separation from her family, or that she was now an angel in heaven.

The bereaved old man admitted all this; but looked upon her death, as far as he was concerned, as the greatest calamity. A loss so terrible and overwhelming, that he disdained to ask of heaven fortitude to bear it, and he drove these Job’s comforters out of his room, in the frenzy of his great sorrow.

“Do not torture him,” sobbed Dorothy, “with this cruel kindness. However well meant, his mind is not in a state to bear it. Leave him alone with his dead for one little hour, till nature softens his sorrow with the holy balm of tears. The shock has been so sudden that his mind is prostrated with the blow. He will recover himself when left alone with the beloved. The silent eloquence of that sweet calm face will do more to restore him to peace, than all we can say to reconcile him to his loss.”

“Oh, if she had only spoken to me before she died;” groaned Rushmere. “I should not feel so bad. I could bear my misfortune like a man. If she had only said in her soft kind voice. ‘God bless you, Lawrence,’ it would ha’ been something to think on, in the long lonesome nights afore me; but she left me without a word. How can I sleep in peace in my comfortable warm bed, knowing her to be alone in the cold earth. Oh, Mary! my love, my treasure! How can I live a’ wanting thee.”

After a pause of some minutes, he looked up from the dead wife to his son, who was leaning against the bed-post, his face covered with his sole remaining hand.

“You may well mourn for your mother, Gilbert, many a salt tear she shed for you. The grief she felt for your cruel desertion broke down her constitution, and brought her to this.”

“Father, I was not alone to blame,” said Gilbert, in a hoarse voice.

“Yes—yes, lay the fault on the old man, he has no one now to take his part, but that poor lass whose heart he nearly broke.”

“Father,” whispered Dorothy, gently taking his hand. “Mother forgot and forgave that long ago. She loved you and Gilbert too well to cherish animosity against either. We are all human and prone to err. If she could speak, she would tell you to banish all these sinful heart-burnings, these useless recriminations, and prepare to follow her to the better land, where she has found peace and assurance for ever.”

“I will, I will, if so be I could only find the way,” responded Rushmere, with a heavy sigh. “Oh, God forgive me! I am a sinful man. I wish I could follow her dear steps, for I am a’ weary o’ my life.”

He laid his head upon the pillow beside his wife, and the tears streamed from his closed eyelids down his pale cheeks.

“Come, let us leave him,” said Dorothy. “He will feel calmer soon. And here is dear Mr. Martin, who can better soothe him in his grief than we can. Oh, I am so glad you are come,” she whispered to the good curate, as she followed the rest of the family from the room. “He is dreadfully afflicted. Poor old father, he loved her so much.”

The four days that intervened between Mrs. Rushmere’s death and the funeral were very trying to Dorothy. She had to receive so many visitors, and listen to so many unfeeling remarks and questions regarding her future position in the Rushmere family, put to her with the coarse bluntness of uneducated people, who could not realize her grief for the loss of one who was not a blood relation. “Was she going,” they asked, “to remain at the farm, or to take service elsewhere?” and they expressed great surprise that young Mrs. Rushmere had suffered her to remain there so long. Then, she was asked to give minute particulars regarding the terrible disease of which her foster-mother had died; of how she bore her sufferings, what doctor she employed, and what remedies had been applied? All this was trying enough to a sensitive mind; but they went further still, and utterly regardless of the wounds they were inflicting, demanded of the weeping girl, “If Mrs. Rushmere had left her anything, and who was to get her clothes?”

This important piece of information, was urged by no less a personage than Letty Barford, who in company with her mother-in-law and Miss Watling, called to look at the corpse.

“I think Mrs. Rushmere has done enough for her,” said Miss Watling as they descended the stairs, “keeping her for so many years after all the trouble she has made in the family.”

This was not said in Dorothy’s hearing, but addressed to Mrs. Gilbert and her mother, to whom the party were offering their condolence.

“These interlopers are always a nuisance in families,” said Mrs. Rowly. “This Dorothy Chance is a good enough girl, but my daughter will be very glad to get rid of her. It does not do to have two mistresses in a house, and she has been used to have her own way in everything.”

“It was but natural,” suggested the elder Mrs. Barford. “She was more than a daughter to them, and it must have been trying to Dorothy to give up the place she had held for so many years, with such credit to herself, to strangers. I pity her with all my heart; when does she leave you Mrs. Gilbert?”

“As soon after the funeral as possible. It is only on the old man’s account that I allowed her to remain here so long. She is the only creature in the house that can manage him, but it is high time that all this should be put a stop to.”

“You are perfectly right, Mrs. Gilbert,” cried Miss Watling. “I think you have shown great forbearance in tolerating the presence of such a dangerous person in the house so long. While she was kept in her place as servant of all work, it was all very well; but since the Earl has taken her under his especial patronage, there is no bounds to her assumption and insolence. Would you believe it, ladies, he is paying for her education, and is actually having her taught to play upon the piano.”

“Strange, that we never heard a word of this before,” cried both the ladies in a breath. “Is she his mistress?”

“That’s the inference which most people have drawn from such strange conduct on his part,” and Miss Watling shrugged her shoulders significantly.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” cried the elder Mrs. Barford. “I heard just now, that Dorothy was going to live with Mrs. Martin, and she is too good a woman to tolerate such doings in her house.”

“It is an easy thing for a man of Lord Wilton’s rank and wealth to bribe people to hold their tongues,” sneered Miss Watling. “It is nothing to me what she is, I shall never give my countenance to a person of doubtful character, and one so every way my inferior. It is a good thing for you, Mrs. Gilbert, that it has pleased God to take the old woman, or this artful girl might make mischief between you and your husband.”

“Oh ma’am, I have no fears on that head,” replied Sophia tartly. “I am not afraid of such a mischance. I saw very little of Mrs. Rushmere, and considering the nature of her complaint, I think her death a happy release; and if the old man were to follow his wife, it would not break my heart—”

“Sophia, you should not speak your mind so freely,” said her mother shaking her head. “But indeed, ladies, my daughter has been treated with so little respect by the whole family, that you must not wonder at her indifference at the death of a mother-in-law, who hardly said a civil thing to her since she came into the house. Of course it was the interest of this girl, Chance, to set the old folk against us, in the hope, which I have every reason to believe she entertained, that they would leave her all their personal property.”

“Has the old woman left her a legacy?” demanded Letty, with breathless interest.

“Not a thing. Her sudden death prevented that. The old man wanted to give her all his wife’s clothes and some of the fine linen, which he said belonged to Dorothy; but Sophia lifted up her voice against it, and the creature refused to accept the least thing, when she found that she could not get all.”

“Just like such domestic sneaks,” cried Miss Watling. “I am so glad she was disappointed. It will serve as a warning to others like her.”

Shaking hands with Mrs. Gilbert in the most affectionate manner, and hoping that they would soon become excellent friends, Miss Watling and the two Barfords took their leave, all but the elder of the twain, delighted with Mrs. Rowly and her daughter, whom Miss Watling pronounced, a very sweet, lady-like young person.

Until the morning appointed for the funeral, the poor old yeoman had confined himself entirely to his own room, beside the coffin which contained the mortal remains of his wife. On that morning, however, he rose early; washed his pale, haggard face, and shaved himself, and put on with unusual care, the mourning suit his son had provided for the melancholy occasion. Kissing with reverence the cold brow of his wife, he screwed down the lid of the coffin with his own hands, “that no one,” he said, “should see her again, or rob him of that last look. It was now time for him to gird up his loins and act like a man.”

Dorothy hearing him stirring, brought up his breakfast, for he had tasted nothing but bread and water for the last four days, and she knew that he must be weak and faint from his long fast. She found him standing behind the closed curtains of the window, looking mournfully into the court below. At the sound of the light well known footsteps, he turned to her and held out his hand. Dorothy threw her arms about his neck, and for some minutes they mingled their tears together. At length, rousing himself, Rushmere placed his large hand upon her bent head, and solemnly blessed her.

“Dolly,” he said, “Dolly, my dear child, had I only known the woman that now fills the place in this house that you ought to have held, I would ha’ seen my right hand struck from my body afore I would ha’ refused my consent to your marriage with Gilbert. I ha’ been punished, terribly punished for my folly and sin, ever since yon deceitful woman came into my house to lord it over me and mine. Night and day I hear Mary’s voice, repeating to me over an’ over again, the words she said to me on that sorrowful morn that Gilly first left his home, an’ I turned you out friendless upon the pitiless world. You, who I ought to ha’ protected to the last hour o’ my life. ‘Larry, as a man sows, so must he reap.’ Oh, my daughter, what sort o’ a crop am I likely to reap with these women when you be gone?”

“They will be kinder to you, father, when I am away.”

“Not a bit, not a bit. It is not in their natur, child. People cannot act agen natur. The only thing that reconciles me to my Mary’s death, is, that she will not have to put up with their evil tempers, and that you, Dolly, will be removed from their malice.”

“Dear father, don’t vex your mind with anticipating troubles; they always come soon enough without opening the door to call them in. Come with me into the next room and eat a bit of breakfast. You have been fasting too long, and look as weak as a child. I have cooked the steak with my own hands that you might have it nice.”

“Ay, Dolly, you wor allers a first-rate hand at making good cheer. Yon Lunnon fine lady wu’d starve a body with her dirty ways.”

“Don’t think of her, father,” said Dorothy, leading him by the hand like a child into the adjoining room, where she had a small table neatly spread, and his breakfast all ready. “You must do justice to my cooking. It is the last meal your poor Dolly will ever cook for you in the old house.”

“Oh, that it wor the last a’ would ever want to eat,” sighed Rushmere, wiping his eyes, and consenting to partake of the meal so temptingly spread before him.

After moving the dishes, Dorothy entreated him to go down stairs, and take a turn in the open air, to revive him after his confinement in the close atmosphere of the death-chamber. But this the old man could not be persuaded to do.

“I wu’d not ha’ minded, Dorothy, had the day been wet.” And he looked sadly toward the window, where the gay sunbeams were glancing through the closed white drapery, “but such a fine morn as this, wi’ the birds singing gaily, as if they never knew sorrow or care, an’ the blessed beams o’ the young sun laughing in the glistening drops o’ dew, an’ all things o’ God’s making, but man, looking so bright and cheery, just maddens me wi’ grief, to think that my Mary will never look upon this beautiful world again. It doth seem grievous to the wounded heart, that natur is allers happy; an’ to-day I can’t stand the smile on her gladsome face; it wu’d comfort me to see it covered up in storm and cloud. You know the old saying, Dolly, ‘Happy is the corpse that the rain rains on.’”

If there was any truth in the old rhyme, Lawrence Rushmere’s wish was gratified. The beautiful morning rapidly clouded over, and just as the funeral procession left the house, the storm burst over the melancholy train in awful thunder-claps, accompanied by floods of rain. Every one was drenched and looked uncomfortable, but the chief mourner. He held up his sad, pale face to the pitiless shower, as if its desolating progress was in unison with his own sad heart; nor did the tempest abate its fury until the sods were piled upon the narrow bed which separated him from the love of his youth.

CHAPTER V.

THE FALSE ACCUSATION.

Dorothy was not sorry to leave the old homestead. All the old associations that had endeared it to her, and surrounded its gloomy walls with an atmosphere of love, were broken up or changed so completely, that she could no longer recognize them. Even the joyous bark of old Pincher, rushing forth to greet her, on her return from church or market, had been silenced, oh, how cruelly. She could not bear to recall the treachery that had robbed her of an humble, faithful friend.

“I cannot recognize the presence of God in this place, as I once did,” she thought, “where every word spoken to me is a provocative to evil, to do as they do, not to do as I would be done by. I have daily prayed to be delivered from evil, and kept from temptation, and have too often yielded to the snares laid to entrap my soul. It is hard to dwell with the scorner, and escape free from contamination.”

She was just cording her trunk, ready for its removal to the parsonage, when Mrs. Gilbert suddenly entered the attic.

“I wish to look into that trunk before you take it away.”

“May I ask why, Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere?”

“To see that you have taken nothing but what belongs to you.”

“Certainly, if you are mean enough to suspect me of such baseness,” and the hot blood rushed into Dorothy’s cheeks, and her dark eyes flashed with a bright light, that made the cold flaxen haired woman recoil before them. “But hold,” she cried (as Mrs. Gilbert laid her hand on the trunk,) “I shall not give you the key, except in the presence of competent witnesses, lest the heart that conceived such an insult should belie me also.”

Springing down stairs, and scarcely feeling them beneath her feet, she encountered Gilbert in the hall.

“Come with me upstairs, Mr. Gilbert.”

“Dorothy, what ails you? Why are you so dreadfully excited? Have you seen anything?” He had heard of her encounter with the supernatural on the heath, and for a moment was possessed with the idea that she had seen the apparition of his mother.

“It is no risen angel,” cried the excited girl, “but a human fiend! I want you to see. Follow me, Gilbert, if you ever loved me, and vindicate my honour.”

Alarmed, for he had never seen Dorothy in such a passion before, and anxious to learn the cause of her distress, he followed her swift footsteps into the attic, where he found his wife still standing beside the half-corded trunk, tapping the floor with her foot, and humming the tune of a country dance.

She smiled disdainfully, as Dorothy put the key into Gilbert’s hand.

“Here is the key of my trunk; will you please to open it, and empty the contents upon the floor?”

“What for Dorothy? you amaze me—what have I to do with it?”

“To satisfy the suspicions of that woman, I cannot call her lady, the lie would choke me. She has demanded the inspection of its contents, lest I should leave the home of my childhood, on the night of my beloved mother’s funeral, with stolen goods in my possession.”

At the mention of Mrs. Rushmere’s name, who had so loved and trusted her, the hot fire of anger was quenched, and she turned so faint, she had to lean against the low wall of the attic for support.

“What a fine piece of acting,” sneered Sophia, “it’s a pity the girl had not been brought up for the stage.”

“Is it possible, Mrs. Rushmere,” and Gilbert looked and spoke sternly, “that you can have disgraced yourself and me in this outrageous manner, and cruelly insulted a noble girl, whose shoe latchet you are not worthy to unloose.”

“Open the trunk. Don’t talk in that style to me; I have my doubts as to this fine young lady’s honour, and I don’t mean to leave the room until they are satisfied.”

“Mr. Gilbert, do what she requires, or, after I am gone, she may accuse me of theft, when I am not here to defend my character.”

“That cannot be recovered, that was lost long ago,” said the cold-hearted woman.

Gilbert reluctantly opened the trunk, and his wife, coolly kneeling down upon the floor, proceeded to toss over its neatly arranged contents; presently she dived down among the clothes, and, quickly withdrawing her hand, held up two silver table spoons.

“Who do these belong to?” she cried with a laugh of fiendish triumph.

“They are not mine,” said Dorothy, trembling from head to foot. “They were never placed there by me.”

“Oh, of course not. Every thief is honest till they are found out. I suppose you never saw these spoons before.”

“I have cleaned them a thousand times,” said Dorothy calmly, for she saw that she was in her enemy’s power. “They were on the dinner table to-day. I have not seen them since. In what manner you have contrived to produce them out of my trunk, God only knows. This I can declare in His holy presence, that I never placed them there.”

“You need not assert your innocence, Dorothy,” replied Gilbert, who had seen an expression on his wife’s face that convinced him that she was the incendiary. “I know you too well to believe you guilty for a moment.”

“That’s all very fine, Lieutenant Rushmere, but facts are stubborn things. I like to unmask hypocrisy, I would therefore thank you to send one of the men to town for a constable, to convey this virtuous, honest Miss Chance to jail.”

“I want further conviction of her having committed an act deserving such rigorous measures,” said Gilbert.

“What farther do you need? This is no case of circumstantial evidence. You have the proofs in your hand. Do you think, sir, that I would condescend to deceive you?”

“‘S death! Madam,” cried Gilbert in a towering passion, “it would not be the first time;” and, still keeping the spoons which he had taken from her in his hand, he went to the door and called Martha Wood. The girl came up stairs on hearing her master’s voice. He went into the passage to meet her, so that no eye telegraphing could take place between her and her mistress.

“Martha, did you wash the two large silver gravy spoons after dinner?”

“Yes, sir. What do you want with them?”

“That’s nothing to you. Did you put them into the plate-box?”

“No, sir, I gave them to Mrs. Gilbert: she said she wanted them for a particular purpose. I need not be so nice in cleaning them, she said she would have a good joke to tell me about them before night.”

“Woman, do you hear what this girl says?” asked Gilbert, stepping back into the room. “Who deserves to be sent to prison now?”

His wife only answered by recommencing the same tune in a louder strain, as she glided snake like from the room.

“Oh, my God, I thank thee!” said Dorothy, raising her clasped hands. “Thou hast delivered me from a doom far worse than death!” Taking Gilbert’s sole remaining hand, she pressed it warmly between her own. “How shall I thank you, dear brother, for saving your poor orphan sister from disgrace and ruin?”

“Remember me in your prayers, Dorothy. I can no longer pour out my heart to you, as in the old happy days, when we were all the world to each other; but there is no sin in asking you to pray for me, a disappointed and most unhappy man.”

He left the room, and Dorothy’s lips quivered, and tears again welled up in her eyes, as she caught a half smothered moan, that told more than words could do, the bitter anguish that was eating out his heart.

She found the old man moping on the stone bench in the court-yard, his head bowed upon his hands, his face completely hidden by the snow-white locks that fell over it in tangled confusion—the beautiful silky hair of which his wife had always been so proud, which she loved to brush over her fingers, before he went to church or market. Who was there to take pride in the handsome old man now? Gilbert had grown reserved and shy; there seemed little confidence or affection between the father and son. Dorothy’s heart bled for the lonely old man, left so desolate and uncared for in his heavy affliction.

“Good-bye, dear father, don’t fret yourself ill; I shall see you at church every Sunday, and we can have a nice walk together after service on the common, to talk over the good old times. You will be sure to come, won’t you?”

“Yes, my darling, if only to see her grave. I know you can’t bide here, Dorothy, that woman would be the death of us both. But if I wor sick or dying, would you come and nurse the old man who used you so ill?”

“Yes, that I would; if Mrs. Gilbert were to bar the door in my face, I would climb in at the window. But, cheer up, father, God is good, there may be many happy days in store for you yet. You must try and live for my sake.”

She put the white locks back from the old man’s ample forehead, and, kissing him tenderly, went her way without casting a backward glance on the old house.

Before we follow Dorothy to the pleasant home of her friend, Mrs. Martin, we will step into Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere’s chamber, and hear what is passing there.

When, detected by her husband in her design to ruin Dorothy, she had borne the exposure of her cruel treachery with an air of insolent nonchalance, and left the room singing—a common artifice with low-bred people, who attempt to hide their malignity by an affectation of gaiety and perfect indifference. The snake hisses before he strikes his victim, perhaps to give him timely warning to make his escape. The human snake hisses to hide its disappointment, that it has shown its fangs in vain.

It was terrible when alone to witness the rage that disfigured the countenance of Sophia Rushmere when she found herself baffled in her cold-blooded treachery. The tune was changed to curses loud and deep, and threats of vengeance against the innocent object of her jealous hatred. She rated Martha Wood in no measured terms for the defeat of her well laid plot. That individual answered her with corresponding insolence.

“How should I know what you were after with the spoons? If you had told me, I could have sworn that I saw Dorothy steal them. What’s the use of making a mystery about your doings to me? I should think I knew too much about your affairs before your marriage for that.”

“But you must have been very obtuse, Martha,” said her mistress, softening down, “not to perceive what I had in hand.”

“I should, if I had got a sight of your face. In the manner that Mr. Gilbert stood in the open doorway, I did not see that you were in the room until the blunder was out.”

“Do you know what he said about it after I left?”

“No, but I saw Dorothy go up to him and take his hand, and he bent down and kissed her. I saw that through a crack in the door!”

“The shameless wretch!” cried Sophy, stamping with passion. “But for your folly, I should have had her transported. Thank God! she’s gone. I have got her out of the house at last, and I’ll take good care that she never comes into it again.”

“She is too near at hand, I should think, Mrs. Gilbert, for your peace. If your husband is as fond of her, as I hear folks say, that he once was, it is a very easy matter for them to meet on that lonely heath, even in broad day, and no one be a whit the wiser.”

The artful girl was heaping fresh fuel on the fire she had kindled in the breast of her weak employer, and when she had nearly maddened her with her base insinuations, she went away laughing at her as a consummate simpleton.

Mrs. Rushmere did not go to bed. She sat up nursing her wrath, and waiting for her husband. The venom of Martha’s poisoned arrows was rankling in her breast. She considered herself the injured party now, and no longer dreaded the indignant expression of his displeasure at her conduct to Dorothy. She would begin the battle first, accuse him of infidelity, and bear him down with a torrent of words.

Following out this idea, a terrible scene of mutual recrimination took place between the husband and wife, which ended, as such scenes generally do, in total alienation on his part, and frantic jealousy on her’s.

Gilbert Rushmere had endeavoured to make the best of a bad bargain, and though he could not respect the woman who had tricked him into making her his wife, he had treated her with more consideration and kindness than she deserved.

The consciousness of having married her for money, involved a moral sense of degradation, which made him more lenient in his judgment, of the deceit practised against him; for had it not been mutual, he could not blame her without including himself in the same condemnation.

For a long time he listened in silence to her maddening speeches, trusting that the heat of her passion would wear out, that her tongue would grow tired with continual motion, and that, not meeting with any opposition, she would give it up as a useless task, and go to sleep. He was fully aware of her weakness, but not of her obstinate strength of will.

“Sophia,” he said, when utterly wearied with her reproaches for imaginary injuries, “after the disgraceful scene this afternoon in the attic, it would be wiser in you to hold your tongue and go to sleep. If you wish me to retain any affection for you, let me never have a repetition of such conduct again.”

“I shall not keep silence, sir, because you dare to tell me to hold my tongue. I shall speak when I please, and as I please, without asking your leave.”

“Well, don’t expect me to listen to such nonsense. My heart is overwhelmed with grief for the death of a dear mother. You surely take a strange time to distress me with your foolish and groundless jealousy.”

“And you to show your preference for that vile woman, that hired mistress of your patron, Lord Wilton!”

“Good heavens! Sophia, what do you mean?”

“I mean what I say, what all the world knows but yourself. Do you think that I will condescend to be placed below this infamous creature in my husband’s estimation, to be told that I am not worthy to untie her shoes. You don’t know Sophia Rowly, if you can imagine that I will submit to such an indignity for a moment. I, who was born a lady, received the education of a lady, and was always treated as such, until I became the wife of Gilbert Rushmere, the son of an ignorant illiterate tiller of the soil.”

“Who has given you a home when you had none, madam, when the debts you dishonestly incurred during my absence had made beggars of us all. This illiterate tiller of the soil made you mistress of his house, and placed you at the head of his table; and this is the way you abuse his generosity. It was an evil day for him, and those dear to him, when your foot crossed his threshold.”

“You would rather have seen Dorothy Chance at the head of the table?”

“She would be the ornament of any table. You cannot make me believe the vile scandals propagated against Dorothy by such women as Nancy Watling. They are just as true, madam, as your accusations against her this afternoon, when nothing would appease your hatred to this beautiful girl, but sending her to prison, or getting her transported. It was murder, however you may disguise the fact; and in perjuring your soul to ruin her, you dared the wrath of God to damn yourself.”

“Fine language, this, to address to your wife,” said Sophy, cowering before her husband’s withering and contemptuous glance.

“You deserve it!” he cried, in a voice of thunder.

“I scorn it!” she returned, with a faint laugh, and pointing at him with her finger.

“It is time, Sophia, that you and I came to an understanding,” said Gilbert, becoming suddenly calm. “If you mean to persevere in this line of conduct, we must part!”

“The sooner the better!” she said in the same taunting tone, though inwardly terrified lest he should carry out his unlooked-for proposal; for, cold and selfish as she was, she entertained for him a passion that shed a vivifying heat into her torpid nature; it would have been love, had she been capable of the devotion and self-sacrifice that are the leading characteristics of that glorious sentiment. She saw the gulf that yawned at her feet, but was too obstinate to yield. Gilbert now spoke in a more earnest and decided manner.

“Sophia, do you really mean what you say?” There was something in the look and manner that was startling; he, at any rate, meant what he said. She would not retract, but remained obstinately silent. “Will you answer me?”

“Can you give me a separate maintenance?” she sobbed out at length. “Will you turn me and my mother out to starve?”

This difficulty had not occurred to him before. It was insurmountable. He had no means but what he derived from his father, and though as perfectly divorced in affection as the sanction of a legal tribunal could have effected, he was compelled, by a dire necessity, to wear the chain that avarice and ambition had rivetted.

They might henceforth sleep in the same bed, eat from the same board, and in public act towards each other as husband and wife, but they were as much divided in heart and confidence as if the wide ocean flowed between them. Gilbert kept his own secret. Sophia Rushmere gave hers to Martha Wood, who told it, as a greater secret, to Mrs. Rowly.

CHAPTER VI.

A PROPOSAL.

Dorothy felt like a captive long incarcerated in prison who has just got his release, and awakes once more to life and liberty. A year ago, and she would have considered it impossible for her to feel glad at leaving Heath Farm, or any place that Gilbert Rushmere called his home. Gilbert she had ceased to respect, and where he was could no longer be a home for her.

She pitied him because he was miserable, but he had brought his sufferings upon himself in a manner that she could neither excuse nor justify, and her compassion was of that mixed sort that made her feel ashamed of its object.

The insults she had received from his wife were still rankling in her breast; their low, base character made them unendurable to a sensitive mind, and she thought less of her former lover when associated with this woman whom he had accepted in her place for six thousand pounds. His bargain would have been a dead loss to him at treble that sum. He had ventured his all upon it, and had lost everything which makes life desirable: the love of a true heart, his own self-respect, and the fair prospect of domestic happiness. Dorothy felt it painful to witness his degradation, and the situation in which she had been placed precluded any attempt on her part to elevate his mind, and inspire hopes of a more exalted nature. She had a sad foreboding that this false step, though the first, was not likely to be the last, in a rapid downward career. What better could be expected from constant association with such a partner as he had chosen?

The mother, whose loss at that moment was pressing heavily on her heart, to whom Gilbert had always been an earthly idol, had been mercifully taken from the evil to come, and, much as Dorothy had loved her, she no longer wished to recall her to life, to preside over a home that Mrs. Gilbert’s temper would render a domestic hell.

Dorothy was thankful for her emancipation from that house of misrule. She breathed more freely in the fresh air, and her heart once more expanded to the genial influences of nature. The evening was warm and balmy after the thunderstorm, and the golden sunset shed upon wet leaves and dewy grass a glory as from heaven. The birds sang in the glistening bushes by the roadside, and the air was rife with delicious odours, as if an angel had scattered his censor over the rebaptized earth.

The holy tranquillity of the scene chased away the dark shadows that, like spirits of evil, had been brooding for several weeks upon her mind, thoughts which were not of heaven, the remembrance of all those injuries that had been heaped upon her, making her angry and resentful, and anxious that her tormentors might be paid in their own coin.

Nature’s vesper song to her Creator, poured from a thousand warbling throats, once more attuned Dorothy’s sad heart to prayer and praise. Her soul fell prostrate to the earth, the green footstool of His glorious throne, and was gently raised by ministering spirits, and lifted towards heaven.

Near the parsonage, she met Mrs. Martin and the children coming to meet her. With what joy she kissed and embraced them all. What charming little tales they had to tell her of domestic life. Their rabbits had multiplied, their pigeons had all accessions to their families. Harry had discovered that very morning a nest of young kittens in the stable, belonging to Mrs. Prowler, the cat, and they were not to be killed or sent away, until dear Dolly had picked out the prettiest for little Arthur, who was going to name it Dolly, in honour of their dear friend. Then they told her that Johnnie had been ill, but was able to sit up now, and he wanted to hear all the nice stories she used to tell him, and sing to him his favourite hymns; and Dorothy’s weary heart overflowed with happiness to find herself once more among faithful and loving hearts.

After having taken her the round of the garden, to look at all the flowers she had helped them in sowing and planting, and pointing out the prettiest blossoms, and gathering her a choise nosegay, they went gamboling before her into the house, wild with joy that she had come to live with them never to go away again.

“There is another friend very anxious to see you, Dorothy,” said Mrs. Martin, as they passed the well known study door. “Mr. Fitzmorris arrived by the mid-day coach. He looked ill and fatigued, and I persuaded him to lie down for an hour or two, until Henry returned from Storby, where he had to attend a vestry meeting after poor Mrs. Rushmere’s funeral. I wonder if he is awake.” She gave a low rap at the door, and Dorothy’s heart leaped to the sound of the gentle voice that bade them come in.

“Go and speak to him, Dorothy. The sight of you will do him good, and help to dissipate his melancholy.”

At that moment the door opened, and Gerard received them with his usual frank kindness. Dorothy’s black dress informed him of what had happened. He took her hand and led her into the room, making her sit down in the study chair while he drew his seat beside her.

“My dear friend, I see how it is. You have lost that excellent mother. I did hope I should see her again, and administer to her the glorious symbols of Christ’s undying love, before she sank to rest. God has ordered it otherwise. Did she suffer much in that last conflict, which all foolishly dread and shrink from?”

“She was spared all its terrors, Mr. Fitzmorris; she died in sleep. To judge from the beautiful serenity of her face, her waking was in heaven.”

“I too have looked on death since last we met. In death itself there is nothing terrible; it is but the returning wave of life flowing back to Him, and may be regarded as the birth of spirit to its higher destiny. But oh, Dorothy, the death that I lament, that I would have given my own life to avert, was one of such a painful nature, so sudden, so unlooked for, by the dear thoughtless being, who cared not for his soul, scarcely knew that he possessed one, that I can feel little hope in his case. Struck down in a moment in the vigour of manhood; of all the wasted years of a misspent life, he could not redeem one hour from time, to prepare for eternity. It is terrible, heart-crushing, but it is God’s will, and what am I that I should dare to murmur at a just decree!”

“But did you ever warn him of his danger?” asked Dorothy.

“I have nothing to reproach myself with on that head. After my own conversion, I besought him with tears and prayers, with all the eloquence which conviction can give, to turn from the errors of his ways. He laughed at my enthusiasm, and called me a madman and a fool, refused to listen to my earnest appeals, and finally shunned my company. I loved him too dearly to be baffled thus. I wrote constantly to him, and laid my own heart bare, in the hope of winning his, but he refused to answer my letters, and at length returned them to me unopened. I had no other resource left, but to pray for him. But my prayers have returned into my own bosom, and my brother went down to his grave, and gave no sign. He lived two days after his accident, but was never conscious for a moment.”

“It may be better with him than you suppose,” suggested Dorothy. “Though unconscious to you, his soul may have been vividly awake to its spiritual danger; and petitions for mercy which he could not utter in the hearing of man may have been heard and answered in heaven.”

“Thank you for that thought, dear girl, it is suggestive of some comfort. The thief on the cross might have been as regardless of his duty to God and his fellow men, as my poor brother; yet, his petition received a gracious hearing and a blessed promise. We cannot judge others as the great Searcher of hearts judges them. Many a criminal in our estimation may shine hereafter a gem in His crown.”

There was a pause for some minutes, and Gerard Fitzmorris continued pacing the study with rapid steps, so wrapt up in his own thoughts, that he had almost forgotten the figure in black that sat so pale and still in his easy chair.

“Come and take a turn with me in the open air,” he said, suddenly returning to her side. “The atmosphere of this place is close and stifling, the evening excessively warm. I can always think and speak more freely beneath the canopy of heaven.”

Dorothy had not removed her bonnet and shawl, and they strolled out upon the heath. During their ramble, he made her recount all that had happened since Gilbert’s return, and was shocked at the manner in which she had been treated.

“There is only one way to punish such people,” he said, “to return good for evil. It is not only the best, but the easiest way, and the peace and satisfaction it confers, repays the injury a thousand fold. I have tried it in many instances, and have experienced its happy results.”

“It sounds excellent in theory,” said Dorothy, “but I find it a hard doctrine to reduce to practice.”

“Nay, Dorothy, it is the theory which is difficult; for our sinful human nature with its perverted reason, rebels against it, the other course being more in unison with its vindictive feelings, and the spirit of retaliation by which we are more or less governed. If, however, we make the slightest effort on the side of mercy and forgiveness, the Spirit of God working with our spirit, makes it not only easy, but brings with it the utmost peace and satisfaction, verifying even the old pagan maxim, ‘that virtue is its own reward.’ Our blessed Lord would never have promulgated a doctrine which could not be reduced to practice, and which he carried fully out in his own person.”

“But then, He was so different from us.”

“Not while He partook of our nature. He was subjected to temptations as great, or even greater than those that He taught us by precept and example to shun. If there had been no conflict with evil, there would have been no victory. Remember He fought the battle for us alone and single handed, without praying for the legion of angels to assist Him in the awful struggle. We have not only His example to help us, but the powerful aid He promised to all who would take up the cross and follow Him. Our very weakness constitutes our strength when upheld by His saving arm.”

After a walk of some minutes in silence, he said in a more lively manner. “Dorothy, you must forgive this cruel woman, and only indulge the God-like revenge of doing her good for the evil she has done to you. Take her conduct as a life trial, and bear it with the courage of a Christian.”

“I will endeavour to do so,” returned Dorothy, “and when you are near to advise and strengthen me, I do not feel it so hard to restrain these resentful feelings; but, directly, I am left to myself, I grow fierce and angry, and wish that my persecutors may meet with the punishment they deserve.”

“Dorothy!” said Mr. Fitzmorris, stopping and looking earnestly into her face. “Will you answer me truly, a simple and straightforward question?” His companion looked up with a wondering smile. “Would you like to remain always with me, Dorothy? Will you become my bosom friend—my faithful counsellor—my beloved wife, bound to me by that blessed and holy tie, ‘the love of Christ.’ One with me in heart and purpose, in the bond of faith and love and charity with all mankind. Answer me, Dorothy, fully and freely, with the beautiful candour which makes you so charming in my eyes. Can you love me, as well as you loved Gilbert Rushmere?”

“Yes better than anything on earth,” whispered Dorothy, without venturing to lift her eyes, or wipe away the tears she was unable to restrain, and sinking into the arms which were held out to receive her. “I never knew what it was to love truly, devotedly and with my whole heart until now.”

“We are one, my own Dorothy, my beloved, in heart and soul, and henceforth I trust for ever,” and he sealed the contract of their engagement with a kiss as pure from the dross of passion, as the young mother bestows upon her firstborn child.

“Oh, Mr. Fitzmorris, I am not worthy of your love;” sobbed Dorothy. “A highly connected man like you should seek out a fitter mate than me.”

“You should have thought of that before you gave your sanction to my proposal, little wife.” And the old beautiful smile lighted up his face. “It is too late to draw back now. If I did not love you better than the world and its foolish conventionalisms, I should not have asked you to be mine. I value the gift that God has bestowed upon me, too highly, to give it up for the prejudices that belong to wealth and caste. You have made me very happy, Dorothy darling, as little Henry calls you. Poor little fellow, I am afraid that he will feel very jealous of his big rival.”

And Dorothy was happy, too happy to waste her joy in words. As she leaned upon the strong arm of her noble protector, she realized the delightful consciousness, that she was no longer alone in the world.

The lovers lingered upon the heath talking over their future prospects, until the moon rose and shed her melancholy loveliness on ocean and heath.

They were not to marry until after Lord Wilton’s return, and Gerard thought it advisable, that both should write to him and make him acquainted with their engagement. He did not wish it to be kept secret. He thought that Dorothy’s claim upon his protection would prevent unpleasant scandal, silence the foolish tattling of her former acquaintance, and conduce to her own peace and comfort. His character stood too high for his conduct to be attributed to base and dishonourable motives; and as his affianced wife, Dorothy would rise in the estimation of her worldly neighbours.

They found Mrs. Martin waiting tea for them, and wondering what had detained them so long from the social meal. The shy, conscious look on Dorothy’s face revealed the mystery, which Gerard wholly cleared up, when he pleasantly introduced her to his old friends as his future wife.

“Lady Dorothy Fitzmorris,” said the curate, rubbing his hands with great glee, “I wish you much joy.”

“The title is rather premature,” returned Gerard, gravely, “though it may fall to her only too soon. You know, Henry, that Gallio careth for none of these things. For the last three years I have been looking for a wife that would answer Solomon’s description, ‘A woman whose price is above rubies,’ and I am fully persuaded that I have found my ideal in the dear girl before you. It little matters to me whether she be a peasant or a princess. The highest of all titles is comprised in that of a Christian.”

“Mr. Fitzmorris, I honour you for your choice!” cried Mrs. Martin, “and rejoice at the good fortune of our young friend.”

Dorothy, overwhelmed with the unexpected turn that her affairs had taken, sat with downcast eyes and averted head, in order to conceal her quivering lips and fast-coming tears; yet she was happy, far too happy to speak, and would gladly have left the table, to escape observation and commune with her own heart in the solitude of her chamber.

Gerard saw her confusion, and in order to restore her self-possession, called out gaily, “I hope, Mrs. Martin, you have reserved for us a good cup of tea, and have not been guilty of destroying Henry’s nerves by giving him the strength of the pot. I assure you, I feel viciously hungry after a long day’s fast, and am not yet sufficiently spiritualized to live wholly upon love.”

Strangely enough, this speech, which was meant to raise Dorothy’s spirits, recalled forcibly to her memory the conversation between herself and Gilbert Rushmere at the stile, when she had rallied him for saying, in such passionate terms, “That if she refused to marry him, he would die of love.” And now she was the betrothed of another, with a heart overflowing with joy and gratitude that she could never be Gilbert’s wife, while he had united his destiny with a woman whom he could neither love nor honour, and was more likely to die the victim of avarice than love. “How inscrutable,” she thought, “are the ways of Providence. How little human wisdom could predict such a result.”

Dorothy was no longer banished from the sacred study. Gerard insisted on her taking possession of the great leathern chair, while he composed those heart-searching sermons that were making his name known as an eloquent preacher.

When absorbed in his own meditations, the pale, fair-haired priest seemed scarcely conscious of her presence; but if, by chance, he encountered her look of devotional tenderness, the wonderful eyes responded with an earnest gaze of love and peace—their owner sometimes observing, with a sigh, “Dorothy, darling, I am too happy.” Then Dorothy would creep to his side, or sit down on the stool at his feet, just to feel the pressure of his large white hand on her ebon ringlets, and hear him say, in his rich, deep voice, “God bless you, my dear girl.”

And when the writing was laid aside for the day, and she accompanied him in his visits to the poor and suffering, she enjoyed with unspeakable delight the walk over the heath, and the share he allotted to her in his ministrations of charity.

Poor old Francis died during Mr. Fitzmorris’ absence, but he still continued his visits to Hog Lane, to read and pray with its half-heathen inhabitants. He had made slow progress in the conversion of old Mrs. Bell, but her grandson, Ben, had become a reformed character, and was a monitor in Storby Sunday-school. Speaking of the grandmother, he said:

“It was difficult to make any religious impression upon minds whose feelings and faculties were deadened and rendered indifferent by age and infirmity. If they do not seek God in youth or middle life, they seldom draw near to Him after reaching the appointed age of man.”

Returning from one of these parochial visits, Dorothy reminded her lover of a promise he had once made to her, of telling her some of the events of his former life, and the circumstances that had led to his conversion, and induced him to become a minister of the Gospel.

“I am glad you have asked me, Dorothy, I feel quite in a communicative mood this evening. You have made me acquainted with every page in your short eventful history; it is not fair that you should be kept in ignorance of mine, uninteresting as it may appear.”

They sat down upon a sloping bank, crowned with a screen of tall furze bushes, among whose honeyed blossoms, bees and butterflies were holding a carnival. The sun had not yet set, and his slanting rays gleaming over the wide heath, obscured every object with their golden radiance.

“It is a shame to turn our backs upon that glorious sunshine,” said Dorothy, “but my eyes are dazzled and blinded by excess of light.”

“What a type of the beautiful but fallacious visions of youth,” said Gerard, “when we behold everything through a false medium, coloured by fancy to suit our own taste. Truth lies at the bottom of the picture, like the ragged landscape that the golden sunset hides from our view. While attracted by the brilliancy of his beams and building castles among the clouds, we forget the barren soil and the bare rocks beneath our feet. Mine is no tale of romance, gentle wife, though I have been a great dreamer in my day, but one of sad reality; and that I may avoid trespassing too much upon your patience, I will endeavour to be as brief as possible.”

CHAPTER VII.

A CONFESSION.

“My father, Colonel Gerard Fitzmorris, was brother to Sir Thomas, the father of the present Earl of Wilton. Gerard was many years younger than his brother; a large family having died between their respective births. He held the rank of colonel in the army, and served the whole of the American War of Independence, and had gained the reputation of a brave and distinguished officer. After the termination of the struggle, he returned to England, and married Lady Charlotte Granville, sister to the Lady Dorothy Fitzmorris. These beautiful and accomplished women, were the only children of the late Earl of Wilton.

“This was an excellent match for my father, in the common parlance of the world; but was one entirely of convenience on his part. He was a handsome dashing soldier, and was held in great esteem by men of his own class, who considered him the model of a perfect gentleman and a leader in the ranks of fashion, where he shone as a star of the first magnitude. In short, he was one of those easy-going reckless men, who are known among their companions as excellent fellows. Men, whose hearts are in the right place, who spend their money freely and are only enemies to themselves. They may drink, and swear, and gamble, and break God’s commandments with impunity; drawing others into the same maddening vortex by their vile example; but the world, for which they live, excuses all their faults. They are of it, have sworn allegiance to it body and soul, and as long as they retain wealth and influence, it will continue to make idols of them.

“Colonel Fitzmorris, in addition to all these conventional advantages, possessed the act of pleasing in an eminent degree, and was admired and courted by the other sex as the beau ideal of manly beauty and elegance. Doubtless it was these external graces that captivated and won the heart of my mother.

“People wondered that the proud Earl should give his consent to the marriage of his daughter, with a man of moderate fortune and dissipated habits; but she was the child of his old age, the sole fruit of a second marriage; another petted idol of his heart. From a baby she had been used to have her own way, and the doting father could not withstand her passionate appeals to his parental affection, to be allowed to marry the man of her own choice.

“The Earl, in this case, appears reluctantly to have yielded to her wishes; and delayed the marriage until after she had attained her majority; hoping that time and the gaieties of London would divert her affections from my father, and concentrate them upon a more eligible object. She, however, remained firm to her attachment, and their marriage was celebrated with unusual magnificence. A prince of the blood royal gave away the bride, who inherited a fine fortune from her mother, which, I fear, was the sole inducement my father had in making her his wife.

“My poor deceived mother, I have every reason to believe, was passionately fond of her husband; but retiring in her habits, she lacked the art to secure the affection of a man of the world, and such a general lover as Colonel Fitzmorris was known to be.

“She was his legal wife, but not the mistress of his heart. In public he treated her with marked attention and politeness, which he considered due to a woman of her rank; in private she was neglected altogether, or regarded with cool indifference; and having no inclination for the ostentatious show of a life spent in public, my dear mother passed most of her time in the country with her infant sons, at the beautiful seat which had formed a part of her noble dower.

“While she continued to love my father, his conduct must have occasioned her great anguish of mind. A faithful female attendant has since informed me that most of her solitary nights were spent in tears. After every tender feeling had been torn and estranged, and indifference succeeded to love, she, unfortunately, transferred the affections which had never been reciprocated by her faithless partner, to a man who, had she known previous to her ill-starred marriage, would have been worthy of her love.

“General Halstead commanded the brigade in which my father was colonel, and was a constant visitor at the house. He was a man in middle life, with a fine, gentlemanly presence, frank, brave, and independent, had read and travelled much, and could talk well on most subjects. He was very kind to us boys, and we both loved him, for we saw a great deal more of him than of our father, who never kissed or played with us as General Halstead did.

“But to hasten a sad story. General Halstead sought and won the heart my father had trampled and spurned, and my mother eloped with her seducer to France. I have often since wondered how she could leave her two young sons, who were rendered worse than orphans by her rash desertion.

“I can just remember my mother. She was always gentle and kind to Francis and me. We so seldom saw our father that we loved her with the most ardent affection. I recollect the fatal night of her departure as well as if it were but yesterday. The weather was July, and oppressively warm, and Mrs. Starling, the nurse, put us early to bed, that we might not disturb Lady Charlotte, who was dressing to go to a large party, she said, ‘and could not play with us that night.’

“I was a nervous, irritable boy. I could not sleep for the heat, and lay awake watching the moon, and the strange shadows thrown by the vine-leaves that encircled the window, upon the white curtains of my bed. At last I grew frightened by the grotesque shapes, which my too active imagination endowed with life and motion, when the summer breeze from the open window stirred the drapery.

“I began to cry piteously.

“A figure glided into the room, and sat down beside me on the bed. It was my mother. She was dressed for a journey, and wore a dark cloth riding habit, and a broad black velvet hat and white feathers. She was a tall, elegant-looking woman, more remarkable, I have been told, for her exquisite form than for her face. She was, if anything, too fair, with dark blue eyes and flaxen hair like my own. She used to call me her dear, white-headed boy, and congratulate herself on my being a Granville—her maiden name—and not a Fitzmorris. That night she looked very pale and sad, and seen in the white moonlight, appeared more like a ghost than a creature of warm flesh and blood.

“‘What ails my darling boy?’ she said, and took me out of the bed into her lap, pressing me tightly to her breast, and kissing the tears from my wet cheeks.

“‘I am afraid, mamma.’ I trembled and looked timidly towards the curtains.

“‘Afraid of what?’ and her eyes followed mine with a startled expression.

“‘Of those things dancing on the bed curtains. Don’t you see the black, ugly creatures, mamma?’

“‘They are only shadows; they cannot hurt you, Gerard.’

“‘Oh, yes, they can. They are coming for me. Don’t let them carry me away.’ I clung to her, and hid my face in her bosom. ‘Oh, do stay with me, dear mamma, until I go to sleep! Don’t leave me alone!’

“I felt her warm tears falling fast over my face. She kissed me over and over again, then tried to lay me down quietly in the bed. I did not want to go to bed, and I flung my arms round her neck, and held her with desperate energy.

“‘Don’t go! If you love me, mamma, don’t go!’

“‘I must go, my dear boy.’

“‘What, tonight, mamma!’

“‘Yes tonight, the carriage is waiting.’

“Her lips quivered, she wrung her hands with an impatient gesture. ‘Don’t ask any more questions, Gerard, I am going a long journey with a friend. Now lie down like a good boy, and go to sleep.’

“‘And when will you come back?’

“She was weeping passionately, and didn’t answer.

“‘To-morrow?’

“She shook her head.

“‘Then take me, too. I will be a good boy—indeed I will. But don’t go away and leave me.’

“‘I can’t take you, Gerard. Where I am going, you cannot come.’ She tried to unclasp my clinging arms, but it was some time before she succeeded, I held her so fast.

“‘Oh my poor little boys! my poor little boys!’ she cried, in an agony of grief, as she bent over me and kissed my sleeping brother. ‘What a wretch I am to leave you to the care of such a father. Gerard,’ she said softly, ‘if I never come back, will you sometimes think of me, and continue to love your poor mother?’

“I was growing sleepy, and was too young to comprehend the terrible truth concealed by those words. I dimly remember, as in a dream, a tall man leaning over us, and extricating my mother from my clinging arms.

“‘He is going to sleep, Charlotte, dearest, you should have spared yourself this trying scene.’

“‘How can I live without them, Charles?’ she sobbed, and stretched her arms towards us.

“‘You must now live for me, Charlotte. We have ventured too far to go back. Come away, my love, it is time we were on board.’

“That was the last time I ever saw my mother. Before she left the room I was asleep, in blissful ignorance of the great calamity that had befallen me.

“Though guilty of a terrible crime, I have never been able to banish her from my heart—where she must ever remain, as one of the most beautiful visions of childhood.

“Poor, gentle, affectionate, illused mother, with a heart brimful of love and kindness, how dreadful the conflict must have been, between duty to a husband who never loved her, and fidelity to the man by whom she was passionately loved. Terrible must have been her mental struggles, before she resolved to burst those sacred ties asunder, and leave for ever the children so dear to her.

“Was she more guilty than the husband, who in defiance of his marriage vows, lived in open adultery with another woman, on whose children he bestowed the parental love he withheld from those born in lawful wedlock, wasting the noble fortune he obtained through his injured wife among disreputable companions, in low scenes of debauchery and vice.

“The world can always extenuate the fault of the male offender, and lay the blame solely upon his unhappy partner; insinuating that faults of temper, and a want of sympathy in his tastes and pursuits, was most probably the cause of his estrangement—unscrupulously branding her name with scorn and infamy.

“There is One, however, who weighs in an equal balance the cause and the effects produced by it in the actions of men, who will judge her more leniently. The merciful Saviour who said to the erring woman, dragged into His presence to be made a public example and put to a cruel death, ‘Woman where are those thine accusers? Hath no man condemned thee? Neither do I condemn thee, go and sin no more.’

“Oh, how my bosom thrilled and my heart burned within me, when I read that text seriously for the first time, and thought of my poor mother, and was comforted with the blessed hope that she, too, might be forgiven.”

Gerard’s voice faltered, and Dorothy felt the strong frame tremble with emotion, but the stronger will conquered the human weakness, and he continued:

“My father’s sense of honour, in the world’s acceptation of the term, was stung by the desertion of his neglected wife. He learned that the fugitives had been seen in Paris, and lost no time in tracing them out. A duel was the result, in which my father received a mortal wound. His body was brought home and buried with due pomp in the family vault. My brother was seven years of age; myself a little chubby boy in frocks and trowsers; and we had to act as chief mourners in that melancholy pageant. We saw the coffin that contained the mortal remains of our father, the once handsome and admired Colonel Fitzmorris, placed in due form among the forgotten members of his ancient house; and after the nine days wonder was over, he was as much forgotten by his fashionable associates as if he had never been. The night before my father died by the hand of the man who had dishonoured him, he made a will leaving everything he possessed to my brother Francis. The settlement made from my mother’s property on younger children, alone falling to my share. As there were no other younger children, and the property was considerable, I was nearly as independent as my brother.

“We were left to the guardianship of the Earl of Wilton, who you will remember was our maternal grandfather. The brothers Fitzmorris having married two daughters of that noble house, and females not being excluded from the succession, Sir Thomas Fitzmorris, the present Earl’s elder brother, was the heir presumptive to the title and estates.

“Lord Wilton was a cold proud man of the world, and the slur that my mother’s elopement, and subsequent marriage with General Halstead, had cast upon the family, did not enhance his love for her children.

“He took more to Frank than he did to me, though he said that he greatly resembled his rascally father. He was a handsome dashing boy, with the same winning popular manners that had contributed to the ruin of Colonel Fitzmorris. Fond of money, but only with the intent to spend it, from a child he paid great court to his wealthy grandfather, in the hope of becoming heir to the immense private fortune he had the power to bestow. In this fortune hunting, Edward Fitzmorris, the present Earl, was quite as much interested as my brother, but he pursued his object with a great deal more tact. The Fitzmorrises, though an old family, and highly connected, were not a wealthy family, and Captain Fitzmorris was a younger son, with little more to depend upon than a very handsome person, and his commission in the army.

“He watched us lads with a very jealous eye, giving us very little cause to regard him with affection. He was many years our senior, his father having married early, and ours late in life—in fact, he was a man, when we were noisy boys, not yet in our teens. It was only during the holidays that we ever met, as we were sent to Eton and then to college.

“It is of no use to tell you, Dorothy, of all the thoughts and follies, which too often mark a schoolboy’s and a student’s life. Suffice it to say that your grave Gerard was no better than the rest. A more frolicsome mischievous imp, never drew the breath of life, always in trouble and difficulties of some sort or another, and when at Oxford, the most daring leader of the wildest and most reckless set of young fellows that ever threw away fortune, health and respectability, at that famous seat of learning. How little I thought of religion in those days, still less of ever mounting a pulpit, or teaching the poor and ignorant.

“At twenty-one, I received from my grandfather a cadetship for India and went out as a soldier, to fight under the present Lord Wellington, who was then Sir Arthur Wellesley.

“You start, Dorothy. Your future husband a soldier! It is pleasant to read your astonishment in those large wondering eyes. I bear the marks of some hot service too, in sundry ugly scars which I regarded as badges of honour in those world-loving days. It was while suffering severely from one of these wounds, that I was sent home, to see if my native air could restore me to health.

“Before leaving India, I determined, if possible, to obtain an interview with my mother. I had never met her husband, though I had eagerly sought an opportunity to revenge upon him the death of my father.

“My mother, I found, had been dead several months, and her husband had been appointed to command a division in Spain. I was terribly disappointed that I could not shoot this man, who had been the best and kindest of husbands to the woman he had led astray from the path of duty, and was reported as almost inconsolable for her loss.

“When I returned to England, great changes had taken place. My grandfather was dead. My cousin Sir Thomas was likewise dead, and the present Earl, who had been for some years a widower, had come in for the title, and all the immense private fortune belonging to his grandfather.

“Of course, Francis and I felt ourselves very much aggrieved, that we were not mentioned in his will, and my brother who had been living a life of reckless extravagance, and hoping to pay off his debts with his share of the spoil, was terribly disappointed.

“My aunt, Lady Dorothy, for whom I had always felt the deepest regard, invited me to spend the time I remained in England, at her beautiful residence in Devonshire. It was here that I first met her charming cousin, Miss Julia Curzon, with whom I fell in love at first sight.

“Don’t be jealous, little one, more episodes of this kind occur in the lives of men than women, and the first love, though remembered the longest, is not always the wisest or the best.

“I did love this fair accomplished girl with all the energy of youthful passion, and my love was not only returned, but accepted, and I looked forward to our union, as the consummation of my earthly happiness. I did not then suspect that she loved the world better than she did me, and was more afraid of incurring its censure than of rendering me miserable for life.

“Several months glided away in that earthly paradise, and in constant companionship with the woman I adored, I considered myself the happiest of men. I saw no clouds in my smiling horizon, and never anticipated a storm. The dark days came at length, that shrouded the sunbeams of hope in gloom and obscurity.

“The summer had set in with intense heat, and much sickness prevailed in the neighbourhood. A slight cold I had taken was succeeded by typhus fever of the most malignant type. When the nature of my malady was made known to the household, all the leading members becoming alarmed for their own safety, left the house, and fled to the sea-side. Julia deserted me without venturing to bid me farewell. Even my brother, who was on a visit with Lady Dorothy, abandoned me, as all supposed, on my death-bed, to the care of hirelings, who were indifferent about me, and more anxious that I should die than live, as in the former case, it would remove from them the sense of danger and responsibility.

“Oh, Dorothy, selfish and worldly as I had been, unguided by the holy precepts of religion, I hardly think that I could have deserted any one so near and dear to me as a betrothed wife and an only brother in such sore extremity. I was anxious to keep Julia and Francis out of danger, but their selfish conduct went home to my heart. I thought about it continually, and raved about their cruelty during the hours when fever and delirium were in the ascendant.

“One friend, however, remained constant to me in the hour of need, never deserting his post by my bed-side, a most tender and self-constituted nurse. He was the son of a small yeoman, who for the sake of good wages, with which he helped to maintain his widowed mother and her family, had undertaken the care of my horses, of which I possessed several splendid animals, being a keen sportsman.

“Charles Harley had formed a strong attachment to me, though I often laughed at him for his pious propensities. The young fellow, however, was so conscientious in the discharge of his duty, that he had won my respect, and, for his humble opportunities, was a man of superior endowments, possessing a fine intellect and strong good sense. In my rational mood he took great delight in reading the Scriptures to me. The monotony of his voice wearied me. I was so much indebted to him for his kind attention to me in my helpless state, that I did not like to wound his feelings by telling him to desist, that I wanted faith to believe in his dogmas, but I considered them a great bore, often pursuing my own train of thought without listening to him.

“The first night that the fever took a favourable turn, and my burning eyelids at last closed to sleep, I had an awful dream, or inspiration, I will call it, to rouse me from a state of careless indifference to the future, and set before me the urgent necessity of self-examination and repentance.

“I thought I was travelling with a gay and joyous set of companions, fellows to whom I was well-known, through a beautiful and highly cultivated country. My father and brother and my affianced bride formed part of the pleasure-seeking crowd. Some were on horseback, some on foot, and some in splendid carriages, but all intent on one object, and evidently bound to the same place.

“As I journeyed onward, somewhat behind the rest, there gradually rose before me in the east, the walls of a magnificent city, sloping back from the banks of a wide deep stream, in the depths of whose clear pellucid waters, towers and spires and majestic trees were reflected in golden splendour, the very sight of which created in me an intense desire, and impelled me forward to reach the height on which it stood.

“While feasting my eyes upon the novel spectacle, so different from anything I had ever before seen, a sudden halt took place in the foremost ranks of our jovial company, when noisy shouts and acclamations were changed into groans and shrieks and melancholy wailings.

“I hurried forward to ascertain the cause of the delay, and learn the reason of such frantic lamentations.

“It was then that I first discovered that, between us and the shining river that flowed beneath the walls of the golden city, extended a fearful gulf, of unknown depth, and shrouded in utter darkness, which completely intersected the country, precluding the possibility of any advance in that direction.

“From the yawning jaws of this frightful abyss, a lurid mist continually floated up, hiding the celestial city from my view. Into this hideous chasm, as if driven by an irresistible impulse or dire necessity, the crowd, so lately full of noisy merriment, slowly and surely disappeared. Some made desperate efforts to escape, and clung to the rocks and bushes, and called upon their comrades to save them from destruction; others plunged sullenly into the awful gulf, with stoical indifference to their fate, without asking assistance from their companions in misery, or uttering one prayer for mercy.

“I watched them one after another disappear, till my mind was overwhelmed with horror—till my hair stiffened on my head, and my limbs were paralyzed with fear.

“I could not utter a sound, or make an effort to escape from a doom which appeared inevitable. But my soul sent up a cry through that dense darkness, which reached, though unspoken, to the throne of the great Judge—‘Save me, Lord, for I perish!’

“A flash of vivid lightning dispelled for a moment the black horrors of the scene, and revealed to me a cross towering above the dreadful abyss, and planted upon a rock, and one bound thereon like unto the Son of Man, pale, bleeding, and dewed with the death-agony, and written above his head, in characters of light, which revealed all the ghastly horrors of that dismal scene, I read these words: ‘Look unto me and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth.’

“That light pierced my soul like a two-edged sword, and pointed out the only way by which I could escape. I sprang forward. I toiled on hands and knees up the steep acclivity, and sank down gasping at the foot of the cross, embracing it with desperate energy in my arms.

“I awoke bedewed with a cold perspiration, and trembling in every limb.

“‘Thank God, it is but a dream!’ I cried, as I felt the clasp of Harley’s hand, who had heard me scream in my sleep, and had hurried to my assistance. But such a dream—oh, such a frightful dream! So terrible—so real—it looked like truth.

“He gave me a composing draught, and, after a while, begged me to tell him what had frightened me so much in my sleep.

“I was ashamed to tell him my dream, for fear he should think me a coward for quailing before a mere vision of the night. But it haunted me continually. Waking or sleeping it was ever present to my mind. I still imagined myself standing upon the brink of that dreadful precipice—still heard the cries of my lost companions ringing in my ears, as the cloud received them in its sable folds, and the yawning gulf swallowed them up for ever.

“I no longer turned a deaf ear to Harley’s prayers, or listened with indifference while he read to me the Word of Life. My heart responded to every petition, and I listened with intense interest to his simple exposition of passages of Holy Writ. My heart was now opened to conviction, and hungered and thirsted for a knowledge of divine truth with desperate eagerness. A horrible consciousness of guilt pressed so heavily upon my mind that it is a wonder my brain did not yield to the mental pressure.

“After a long struggle with pride, I revealed to Harley the state of my mind, and with many tears besought his advice and assistance. With what joy he embraced me, and mingled his tears with mine, and assured me that I was in the right path, that no man without repentance could ever hope to see God. That my dream was a solemn warning sent by Him, to show me the danger of delay, and called upon me to abandon my wicked courses, and lay down the burthen of my sins at the foot of the cross. He besought me, in the most eloquent language, not to neglect the heavenly vision, lest I should share the fate of those I had seen in my dream.

“I was still too weak to leave my bed or read for myself, and I fear I taxed the poor fellow’s strength too much, in making him read to me for hours at a time. And then I prayed.

“Oh, Dorothy, have you ever experienced the mingled joy and agony of earnest, heartfelt prayer. When shocked at the cold indifference of your own heart, you have bowed your head in the dust as one bereft of all hope; when a sudden gleam of light has shot into your soul, revealing glimpses of heaven, and filling your mind with contentment and holy peace. Such a happy moment came for me at last, which repaid me a thousand fold for all my past sufferings, and the image of Christ was formed in my soul the hope of glory. I awoke to a new life—awoke to rejoice in Him for evermore, and cheerfully took up the cross to follow Him, and suffer—if called upon to do so—gladly for His sake.

“The first trial that awaited me after my recovery was the death of my dear friend, Harley, who took the fever from which a merciful God had suffered me to escape. I nursed him with the same devotion he had shown to me, and it was in my arms he passed from earth to heaven.

“If anything had been wanting to confirm my faith, and strengthen the resolution I had formed, of devoting myself to the Master’s service, Harley’s death-bed would have done it. His faith in Jesus was so perfect, his victory over the last enemy so triumphant, that it left no room for cavil or doubt.

“When my friends heard of my intention of leaving the army, and studying for the church, they pronounced me mad; and it was publicly reported through the country that I had lost my senses during the fever. My conversion was a standing joke among my gay companions, and my brother was never tired of quizzing me about it, and making it the subject of ribald jests. This was hard enough to bear; but when Julia Curzon whom I loved so truly, joined with the rest in ridiculing my absurd fanaticism, as she was pleased to call it, and declared that if I persisted in such folly she never would become my wife, I was sorely tempted to step back into the old path, and resign for her sake my new-born hopes of heaven. Fortunately for me I was saved from such wickedness by the young lady herself, who ran off with a rich country squire, with whom she had been flirting desperately at the sea-side during my illness.

“This ended my romance of life. I felt heartily ashamed of myself for having loved such a worldly-minded woman. My love for her was sincere, but I had no other basis to support it than mere beauty, and a certain amount of fashionable accomplishments. My castle was built upon the sands, and the foundations yielded readily to the first shock, and when it fell, though humbled and mortified, I regained my freedom. After this disappointment, I returned to college to redeem the time I had wasted there in the days of my reckless youth, and to study diligently for my profession. It was more than two years before I was satisfied with the sincerity of my belief, and my fitness for so sacred a calling, when I gladly accepted from Lord Wilton the parishes of Hadstone and Storby as Vicar under him.

“And now, little wife, you are acquainted with the leading points of my history, and nothing more remains to be told, so let us up and be walking homewards, or we shall be too late for the school examination this evening.”

Kissing the small hand that insinuated itself into his own, he lifted her from her lowly seat, and they returned to the parsonage in time for tea.

CHAPTER VIII.

MR. FITZMORRIS READS A TEMPERANCE LECTURE.

Mr. Fitzmorris lost no time in writing to Lord Wilton, and informing him of his engagement with Dorothy Chance, not because he considered that the Earl had any power to influence her choice, but as a matter of courtesy, he having proved himself a kind friend to the orphan girl.

That she was his daughter, he had little doubt. If a legitimate child, such a worldly-minded man, as he knew the Earl to have been in his younger days, would never have consented to see her the wife of Gilbert Rushmere, a man so much beneath him, in birth and education. The idea was preposterous, and fully convinced him that she was the offspring of some unfortunate connection, in which the Earl had suffered loss of honour, and perhaps a woman whom he had passionately loved.

Henry Martin represented him as a conscience stricken and unhappy man, who seemed anxious to make atonement for the evil acts of his past life, by deeds of benevolence and kindness.

“He has stumbled upon that great stumbling stone,” said the good curate, “in thinking it possible to obtain the forgiveness of sins through acts of charity and self-sacrifice. If this could be done, there was no need of an atonement, and the cross would never have groaned beneath the weight of the Son of God.”

Whatever was the nature of the tie that bound Dorothy to the Earl, it was involved in mystery, which Gerard Fitzmorris cared very little to solve. His love for Dorothy was so pure and disinterested, that had he found her begging along the highway, and been convinced of the noble qualities of heart and mind with which she was endowed, he would have thanked God, with all the fervour of his large heart, for giving him such a wife.

He made no allusion in his letter to these matters, but merely stated, that the admiration he felt for Dorothy Chance, and her unaffected piety, had kindled in his heart a sincere and ardent attachment, which had overcome the prejudices of education and caste, and induced him to make her his wife. That having lost her foster-mother, she had no place which she could properly call her home, or any legal protector to silence the shafts of calumny, that were already assailing her character in all directions. That he was happy in having secured the affections of the woman he loved, and he was certain that his noble kinsman as a friend to both parties, would rejoice in this happy union.

And Dorothy wrote to her absent friend all that was in her heart.

“Hadstone Parsonage.

“Dear Lord Wilton,

“I am no scribe, and never attempted to write a letter before in my life; so you must excuse the cramped hand, and all the other blunders and blots, which really I cannot help. I was in great trouble when I got your kind letter, for my poor mother was dying a cruel, painful death from cancer, and my heart was very sore with having to dress her wounds and witness her sufferings. “I read your generous expressions of love and friendship, with the deepest gratitude, and entered into your sorrows with tears of true and heartfelt sympathy, wondering who I was to awaken such an interest in the mind of a great lord.

“Pondering this over and over in my own way, a sudden thought struck me. I will not mention it for I know it would pain you, perhaps, more than it did me. But it had reference to my unknown mother, and I felt very angry, and hoped that what I expected might not be the case, and that I might still continue to love and honour you, as heretofore, which indeed I could not do, if those wicked thoughts were true.

“They took such a hold of my mind, that I was going to tear your letter, and the draft you sent me to pieces, and trample them under my feet.

“I was saved from committing such an outrage, by my poor friend Mrs. Rushmere, who told me that I was acting very foolishly. You may know by this, that I am not so meek as I look, but a very vixen when bad thoughts get into my head.

“Oh, my good lord, you need not have told me that you were not my lover. Indeed, indeed, I never was so vain or presumptuous, to imagine such a thing, though if I had been such a little simpleton, it would not have been half so bad as the other crime of which I suspected you.

“I thank you much for your generous gift, but I have had no occasion to use it, and when you come back, I will return the draft to you.

“A great many things have happened since you went away. Gilbert came to visit his parents, and brought down with him his wife and her mother, and a very disagreeable servant girl, which put me sadly about, and mother so sick.

“When I saw Gilbert again, I wondered how I had ever loved him so much and made myself so miserable. He is far handsomer, is better dressed, and externally improved in every way, yet I felt glad that I could never be his wife.

“He was kind enough, but his women folk treated me very cruelly, and insulted me in every way they could. Their conduct was such, that if I had not promised dear mother to stay with her till all was over, I would have left the house the very day they entered it.

“They were not contented with insulting me themselves, but set the vulgar impudent girl they had with them to harass and annoy me in every way.

“These women called themselves ladies, but to me they seemed like ill-bred pretenders, who asserted their claims to respectability by treating with insolence and contempt those whom they considered inferiors.

“Oh, my lord, I was really ashamed of shedding so many tears about their unkind speeches and unwomanly remarks, but I found their conduct was making me as wicked as themselves. “You knew my old dog, Pincher, the Scotch terrier, that you said should be called old Faithful, because he loved me so well. The vile girl, Martha Wood, actually murdered her mistress’s pet poodle, that she might lay the blame upon poor Pincher. Tom, our farm servant, told me he saw her do it over the hedge. And Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere gave the wretch half a crown to hang my noble Pincher. I believe this treacherous girl would have betrayed our blessed Saviour for thirty pieces of copper. This, which will appear but a light matter to your lordship, caused me the keenest grief. When we have few friends to love us, the attachment of these simple creatures seems to me so touching.

“My dear mother was found dead in her bed on the tenth of last July. She had had a long conversation with me about her end, (which everybody saw was fast approaching) the night before, and was so tranquil and happy, and spoke so cheerfully of it, as a blessed release from great suffering, and of the perfect peace she enjoyed in the assurance of her Saviour’s love, that it seemed an act of impiety any one wishing to detain her from her promised rest.

“I stayed until after the funeral to comfort the dear old man, and restore something of order to the house. While I was busy packing up my few things, to remove to dear Mrs. Martin’s, young Mrs. Rushmere came into the room, and demanded of me the key of my trunk, that she might see if I had taken anything that did not belong to me! It made me feel dreadful. Oh, my lord, your good gentle Dorothy was turned into a fiend. But for the restraining hand of God, I believe I should have murdered her. Well, my lord, when she did examine my trunk—for I called up her husband, and made her do it before him, did she not produce the two large silver gravy spoons that belonged to the old covenanter, Sir Lawrence Rushmere, of whose picture father is so proud, as if by magic from the bottom of the box? Though I knew I was innocent, I am sure that I looked as if I was guilty. I could not have felt worse, if Satan himself had accused me before the throne of God.

“I was so bewildered, that I did not know how to defend myself, and when she told her husband to call in a constable, and send me to gaol, to be tried for theft, and I knew that the evidence might hang or transport me, I felt dumb with horror. Gilbert, however, suspected treachery, and proved my innocence past a doubt, through the evidence of Martha Wood, whom she had only partially made acquainted with her scheme to ruin me, and so a merciful Providence turned the tables against her.

“You may be certain that I was not long in leaving a house that contained such inmates, pitying Gilbert the possession of such a wife, and doubly pitying the poor forlorn old man, who must depend upon her for all his future comforts. “And now, my lord, that I have wearied you with an account of all my troubles, I must tell you something that has made me very glad—so glad, that I consider myself the happiest woman in England.

“Mr. Fitzmorris loves me, and has asked me to be his wife. I know that I am not worthy to be the wife of such an excellent man, but if I am always with him, I cannot fail in becoming wiser and better, for I love him with all my heart, and feel in very truth that our union cemented on earth will last for ever.

“Mr. Fitzmorris has recently lost his brother, and our marriage will not take place before the spring. With sincere wishes for the speedy recovery of your son, and that your lordship may enjoy many years of health and happiness,

“I remain,

“Your grateful little friend,

“DOROTHY CHANCE.”

Lord Wilton received this quaint and singularly candid letter a few days after the death of his son, and just as he was embarking for England, to carry the loved remains to their final resting place in the family vault.

This was not exactly the sort of letter Lord Wilton had waited so impatiently to receive. He had expected sentiment mingled with a dash of youthful romance, and he found only an unvarnished truthful statement of plain facts. One passage in Dorothy’s epistle, however, instantly riveted his attention.

“Francis Fitzmorris dead!” he exclaimed, “and Dorothy’s future husband heir to the earldom and estates. How strange! What an unexpected interposition of Providence to save me from exposure and disgrace, while she will lose nothing by that sad affair remaining an impenetrable secret.”

What the Earl alluded to has yet to be explained.

Dorothy’s engagement to the Vicar could not long be concealed in a small village like Hadstone; whether through servants, or the shrewd observation of neighbours, it soon leaked out.

Miss Watling was in arms in a moment, and stoutly denied the facts wherever she went. While old Mistress Barford insisted that the report was true, that she had heard it from the very best authority, from Mrs. Martin herself.

The dispute was at its height when the two women stepped into the hall at Heath Farm, in order to return a friendly visit from its present mistress.

“Have you heard the news, Mr. Rushmere?” said Mrs. Barford, addressing the old gentleman, who had greatly failed since his wife’s death, and was composing himself for an afternoon nap in the great chair.

“What news?” quoth he, “there’s very little news that can interest me now.”

“Your old favourite, Dorothy Chance, is going to be married.”

“Ay, that’s summat, though,” and he leaned eagerly forward, and quite wide awake. “She’ll make an excellent wife whoever has the luck to get a’. Who’s the man?”

“No less a person than the Vicar, young Mr. Fitzmorris. There’s a chance for her.”

“What our Dolly marry the parson!” and he rubbed his hands in great glee. “Good for her.”

“I beg, Mr. Rushmere, that you will not believe a word of it,” cried Miss Watling. “A very likely thing indeed, for a man of his condition to marry the child of some miserable vagabond. It’s a story all got up, between Dorothy and Mrs. Martin, to throw discredit on Mr. Fitzmorris, who everybody knows, is not a marrying man.”

“No discredit, I should think, to him or to any one,” said Gilbert, turning with a flushed face from the window, where he was standing, “if marrying a beautiful virtuous woman can be a disgrace.”

“That’s right, Gilbert, speak up for your old love,” sneered Nancy, unrestrained in venting her spleen by the lowering brow of Gilbert.

“But, ladies,” she continued, “is it probable that this man, who is now Lord Wilton’s heir, will ever make such a woman as that a countess?”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Barford, “I told you more than a year ago, Nancy, that we might live to see Dorothy Chance ride to church in her carriage.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” remarked Mrs. Rushmere; “I should as soon expect seeing Martha Wood a countess.”

“The girl is very pretty,” said Mrs. Rowly, “there is no denying that; but I don’t believe that she is either virtuous or over honest. My daughter caught her stealing silver spoons.”

“How—what’s that, who dares to call Dorothy a thief?” cried old Rushmere, starting to his feet. “If it were Goliath of Gath, I would tell him he lied. That a’ wud.”

“My wife did,” replied Gilbert sullenly, “and had to eat her words. I think, Sophia, considering the part you took in that infamous affair, it would have been better for you to have held your tongue.”

“Always against your wife, sir. But I know the reason why you are so savage this afternoon. You don’t like to hear that Dorothy Chance is going to marry a better man than yourself,” replied Sophia, in her softest tone.

“She deserves it, as much as I did a better wife.”

He left the room slamming the door after him. Miss Watling raised her eyebrows, shrugged her shoulders, and cast a pitying look towards his wife. Sophia smiled, “that’s a warning to all young unmarried ladies, Miss Watling, not to be too eager to get a husband. I can assure them, that it is far better to remain single.”

“You may spare such advice, Mrs. Rushmere, it will never appear rational, except to the initiated,” said Mrs. Barford. “From the time of Eve downwards, old maids and young maids never will give up the hope of getting married. I had a maiden aunt of sixty, who put this proviso in her will: ‘I leave all my personal property to my nephew, James Stanton; but in case of my marrying, an event not impossible, though rather improbable, I revoke the said bequest.’”

“If men are such bad folks,” said old Rushmere, “I want to know, Mrs. Barford, why all the widdies are so anxious to thrust their heads again under the yoke?”

“They have met with one bad husband, and hope to get a better,” returned Mrs. Rowly, thinking that in duty bound she ought to speak up for them. “There is one piece of advice, however, which I, who have been some years a widow, would give to both widows and maids. Never to marry a cross superannuated old man!” and she cast a scornful glance at the master of the house.

“Sour grapes,” muttered the old Rushmere. “One she-fox is enough in a house, without having two to eat the grapes.”

“What did you say about foxes, Mr. Rushmere?” asked Miss Watling, very innocently. “Have they been troubling your poultry lately?”

“Yes, Nancy, eating me out of house and home. I wish a’ could get rid of such troublesome vermin.”

“You must feel the loss of your wife very much?” remarked the same kind individual.

“More an’ more every day. While Mary lived, I had a quiet comfortable home, but now, I am no longer master o’ my own house. Ay, times are changed, but it won’t be for long.” And taking up his staff he hobbled out.

“The poor old man is failing very fast,” said Mrs. Barford. “What a hale strong man he was a year ago.”

“Oh, he frets, and fumes, and finds fault with everything,” returned Mrs. Gilbert. “It’s of no use attempting to please him—in fact, I now never try. A nice house it would be if I allowed him to interfere. Between him and his son I lead the life of a dog.”

“How do you get on with the dairy, Mrs. Rushmere?” asked Mrs. Barford. “Heath Farm was always celebrated for its butter and cheese.”

“I have given all that up,” returned Mrs. Gilbert. “I can tell old Rushmere and his son that they won’t make a dairy-maid of me.”

“But how will you live without it? The farm is fit for nothing else?”

“I don’t care. I just get Martha to make enough butter to supply the house. The old fellow grumbles and says, it’s only fit for cart grease. But if I can eat it, I am sure he may. I won’t put up with his airs.”

“Poor old man!” sighed Mrs. Barford, as they left the house. “It’s very plain to me how all this will end. Gilbert can’t work, and this wife of his won’t, and the old place will soon come to the hammer, if all we hear of Gilbert’s constant visits to the ale-house be true.”

“How dirty and untidy everything looks,” said Miss Watling. “I was afraid the dusty chairs would spoil my black silk dress. How neat and clean the house used to be.”

“In Dorothy’s time,” suggested Mrs. Barford. “Rushmere did a foolish thing, when he hindered Gilbert from marrying her. However, the poor girl will be much better off.”

“Oh, don’t talk about her. I hate her very name.”

“Nancy, it is all envy,” returned Mrs. Barford, laughing; “you will like her very much when she is Countess of Wilton.”

What Mrs. Barford had hinted about Gilbert’s visits to the public-house in the village, was but too true. The young man had no peace or happiness at home. His wife and her mother insulted and abused his old father, who gave way alternately to fits of passion and sullen gloom. He would appeal to Gilbert, when he felt himself unusually aggrieved, but for the sake of peace, for he was really afraid of his wife, Gilbert chose to remain neutral.

This enraged the old man, who would call him a poor hen-pecked coward, to stand by and see him ill-treated. Then Gilbert, roused in his turn, would tell him that it was his own fault, that if he had let him marry the woman he loved, they might have been all happy together.

One evening, when Dorothy and her lover were returning home through the lane, from visiting a sick man in the country, they observed a tall man staggering along before them, making very ludicrous efforts to keep his balance, which was greatly frustrated by the want of an arm.

“That’s poor Rushmere,” said Gerard. “Walk home, dear Dorothy. I must speak to him. I cannot see a fellow-creature in this state without attempting to warn him of his danger.”

Directly Dorothy was out of sight, for she took the path over the heath, he followed Gilbert, and, laying his hand gently on his shoulder, said,

“My friend you are in the wrong path, take my advice and I will guide you into a better.”

“Go to—!” was the awful rejoinder from the intoxicated soldier.

“No, my friend, I should be very sorry to travel one step in your road. It is to save you from the frightful termination of your journey, that I now address you.”

“I neither care for your cant, nor your companionship. Begone, and leave me to pursue my own way,” and Gilbert turned fiercely round, and struck Mr. Fitzmorris a heavy blow with his left hand. “Do you like that? You see,” and he laughed bitterly, “though I am drunk and have only one hand, I have some strength left.”

“Gilbert Rushmere,” said Gerard very quietly, “I do not mean to resent your blow. Though now a canting parson, I was for five years a soldier. You lost your arm in one great battle. I have received wounds in four. I am no coward. Those who fight under the banner of the Prince of Peace must use other weapons than those wielded by the arm of flesh—patience, temperance and brotherly love. I cannot be angry with you, I pity you from my very heart, and would save you, if you would allow me to do so.”

“If I had known you had been a soldier, Mr. Fitzmorris, and fought and bled for old England, I should have been the last man in the world to strike you. Can you forgive me?”

“With all my heart. There is my hand.”

“The blow I gave you was a severe one.”

“Rather, I could have returned it with interest. I was once a good boxer, but I wish to be your friend. Cannot I persuade you, Rushmere, to renounce this vile habit, and escape from the ruin which it involves.”

“I cannot promise you, Mr. Fitzmorris even to try. It is the only relief I have. The only antidote to misery like mine. The sooner it kills me, the sooner I shall get rid of this wretched world. I hate and loathe my life, and want to die.”

“That would be all very well, if you could kill your soul. But though you may sinfully abuse and destroy the machine in which it dwells, to destroy that, is beyond your power. It is only the God who made it, that can destroy both body and soul in hell. Suppose that you succeed in killing yourself, you will find the second state worse than the first, a whole eternity of misery, instead of a few years spent on earth. Don’t push me off, Rushmere, I can’t see you perish in this foolish way, without trying to convince you of your sin.”

“I will listen to you some other time. I have heard enough for one night. If you could tell me how to get rid of my wife, I would listen to you patiently all day.”

He brushed hastily past, his foot caught on a stone, and he measured his length upon the dusty road.

“See, you are not in a fit state to guide yourself.” And Gerard once more set him on his feet.

“Go out of my way. I can get on without you. If you knew how jolly a glass makes me feel, you would get drunk too,” and he staggered on singing at the top of his voice:

“Which is the properest day to drink? Sunday.”

“That, parson, won’t do for your shop. Good night.”

“Unhappy man,” said Gerard, “what good angel can arrest your downward course? if he will not be persuaded by me, I must try what Dorothy can do. I could almost love the fellow, for having had taste enough to love her.”

CHAPTER IX.

THE OLD MAN IN PRISON.

Several weeks passed away, happily enough for Dorothy and her lover, who every day became better acquainted with each other, and more deeply sensible of the congeniality of character, which though different in many trifling points, yet harmonized so well together. While they advanced hand in hand, along that narrow path, whose steep ascent towards perfection no human being ever trod unrewarded or in vain, a very different line of conduct had been adopted by Gilbert Rushmere and his wife.

Private quarrels had increased to public brawls, insulting language, and mutual recriminations, and the house was kept in such a miserable state, that few of the old friends and associates of the family ventured across the threshold. Lawrence Rushmere had cause enough to repent of his interference between Dorothy Chance and his son, and found, to his cost, that little peace or comfort remained for him in his old age.

The farm was going to ruin; Gilbert was never home until late at night, when he generally was conducted to the house by some neighbouring toper, as fond of losing his senses in the bowl, but in a lesser degree of brutal intoxication.

Mrs. Gilbert raved, and her mother reviled and scorned; and the wretched old man, if he attempted to make his voice heard in the domestic uproar, was silenced by Mrs. Gilbert telling him to hold his tongue, that she wanted no advice from such a superannuated dotard.

The report of these doings at Heath Farm were not long in reaching the ears of the Vicar, and gave great pain to Dorothy. What was to be done to rescue Gilbert from ruin? that was the great question.

Mr. Fitzmorris tried to obtain an interview with him, and for that purpose called several times at the house, but always received the same answer from Martha Wood, “that young Mr. Rushmere was not at home.”

“Where was he to be found?”

“She did not know. Perhaps at Jonathan Sly’s, at the ‘Plough and Harrow,’ may be at Storby, where he was looking for a man, to whom he had sold a team of horses.”

So to Storby the Vicar went, and inquired of every likely and unlikely place in the town for Lieutenant Rushmere. At one low tavern the landlord told him that he had been there with a horse jockey, that they had some liquor, and went out again, he believed, to bet in the cock-pit.

“Where may that be? I did not know that you had such an abomination in the town,” said Mr. Fitzmorris.

“Well, it’s not zactly in the town, sir. There’s a little low hedge ale house, by the road side, as you come in by the back way. A hole, kept by old Striker, that was a smuggler, and made to suffer some years agone. He keeps the ‘Game Cock.’ It is a bad place, only resorted to by thieves and swindlers; and a dreadful pity that the Leaftenant ha’ got in with such a set. He’ll soon bring the old man to a gaol, and hisself is going to the devil as fast as he can.”

Mr. Fitzmorris perceived the great urgency of getting Gilbert out of the clutches of these men, and after thinking over the matter for some minutes, he proposed to the landlord to go with him to the “Game Cock,” and tell young Rushmere that a friend wanted to speak to him on a matter of great importance.

“Na, na, I would not venture my nose in amongst them wild chaps for a crown piece. You see, sir, I’m but a little man of a quiet turn. I never could fight in my life, an’ it’s only farm labourers that ever frequents my tap, an’ they have but little money to spend, and are too heavy and loompish to quarrel, and kick up a bobbery. They only laughs and grins, and jokes one with the tother, whiles they drinks a glass of beer or yeats a mouthful of bread an’ cheese, on their way down with their teams to the wharf, where they ships loads of corn, an’ then return with coals. These poor creturs are just harmless as lambs. The fellows that Rushmere has got in with are a set of noisy dare devils, who’ll knock a man down as soon as look at him. I think yer Reverence had better not go near them.”

“My duty lies in such places, and while in the performance of it, I feel afraid of no man. Can you give me directions as to the situation of the cock-pit, without the necessity of my going into the house?”

“Just beside the house there runs a high brick wall. Open a low door about the middle of it, and you’ll find yourself in a shed, with a set of rude fellows swarming round it, looking down upon the pit with the cocks. It’s exciting work, sir, that fighting with the bonnie birds,” continued the little man, with a knowing twinkle in his eye. “But ‘tis reckoned a vulgar, low pastime now. In my young days, lauk a mercy, sir, it was played by high and low, and fortins have been won an’ lost on a game cock. Did your Reverence ever see a match?”

“I have seen, my friend, more than is good in my short life, when I foolishly thought more of the amusements of this world, than of the endless happiness and glory of the next.”

“Ah, sir, a man can’t allers be thinking of Heaven and reading the Bible, and saying prayers all the time. I’m sure if I were your Reverence I should find it very dull work.”

Mr. Fitzmorris smiled good-naturedly.

“There are many ways, my friend, of serving God besides reading the Bible and praying. When we endeavour to follow our Blessed Lord’s example, in trying to do good to our fellow-creatures, we award Him the best praise of which our nature is capable; and the man who loves Him, and does all for His sake, without claiming any merit for himself, enjoys in acts of love and charity the most exquisite pleasure.”

Laying his hand emphatically on the little publican’s shoulders, he continued, “Seek the Lord earnestly, diligently, and with your whole heart, and serve Him faithfully, and you will know the truth of what I say, and experience such joy and inward satisfaction as you never dreamed of before. The Heaven of a true Christian commences on earth. For where God is, there is Heaven. If His Spirit dwells in you, old things pass away, and all things become new.”

Before he had finished the sentence, a farm-servant came up to the little tavern in hot haste.

“Hullo, Barnaby!” he cried, “can yer tell ‘un aught o’ young Measter Rushmere? The bully-bailiffs are in the house—old measter raging like a wild bull—mistress crying an’ wringing her hands—the old ‘un scolding and fussing; the blackguard of a servant-girl laughing in her sleeve, to hear what she calls the fun—an’ the old man threatening to blow the fellows’ brains out with the rusty old blunderbuss that has na’ been fired off since King George came to the crown. If Measter Gilbert does na’ come whome quick, there’ll be the devil to pay an’ no pitch hot.”

“It seems hot enough, Joe, by your account already,” returned Master Barnaby. “This will be a good excuse for your Reverence to get him away from that sink o’ iniquity.”

“Let us lose no time,” said Mr. Fitzmorris, turning to the man who was standing gaping at him with open mouth and eyes. “My good fellow, can you show me the way to the ‘Game Cock?’”

“Why, yees, sir. It’s on our way whome, supposing yer goes round the back o’ the Heath. Yer sartainly won’t find Measter Gilbert there?”

“He is there.” And Gerard swung his strong oak stick in the air, and followed his conductor at a rapid pace down a narrow footpath that led across the marshes to Hadstone.

It was a lonely, desolate tract, intersected with wide ditches, full of stagnant water, generally crossed by a single plank.

The sluggish river crept its lazy length to the sea, between high banks of mud, and when the tide was out, its dimensions contracted to a tiny stream, which flowed through a wide bed composed of the same alluvial deposit that filled the air for miles with a rank, fishy smell. A footpath ran along the top of the mud-bank, and Mr. Fitzmorris and his guide followed this till they came to a low stone bridge with one arch, of very ancient structure, which crossed the main-road to London, where the heath sank down to the level of the salt flats. A few paces from the bridge, and below the heath, a low dwelling, composed of wattle and daub, bore the ostentatious sign of a large, fiery, red game cock, in the act of crowing, as if to give notice to the tired pedestrian that he could get refreshments for man and beast, at the house kept by Jonas Striker.

“Well, Measter Fitzmorris, this be the place. An’ yer wud know’t by the uproar that’s going on in the shed, without the help o’ the bird that’s allers crowing, but never do crow, outside the door. But don’t yer hear the crowing an’ clapping o’ wings o’ the bully birds within, an’ the shouts o’ the men that ha’ won on the conqueror!”

Mr. Fitzmorris did not answer. He pushed open the door of which Barnaby had spoken, and entering the yard with a firm, decided step, walked up to the drunken and noisy crowd.

Some drew back as he advanced, as if ashamed of being caught by the parson in such a disreputable place, while others turned and faced him with an audacious stare. Gilbert Rushmere, who was leaning on the rail, cried out in a sneering tone:

“You are too late for the main, parson, but just in time to perform the funeral service over the black cock. There he lies—his last battle ended. As brave a knight as ever wore steel spurs. I’ll be chief mourner, for I ventured upon him my last guinea.”

Without taking the least notice of this speech, or the ribald crew by whom he was surrounded, Gerard went up to Gilbert, and drew him forcibly apart.

“Rushmere, I have bad news for you. Come home with me. The bailiffs are in the house, and everything in confusion at Heath Farm. You know what the feelings of the proud, independent old man must be in such circumstances. Leave this disgusting place and your vicious companions, and I will see what I can do to save your family from disgrace.”

Gilbert looked in Gerard’s face with a half-stupefied stare of blank incredulity.

“Now, parson, you are only funning me—this is one of your pious dodges to get me out of this. I know I’m a fool to be here—but having once passed the Rubicon, I don’t mean to go back.”

“What I tell you is perfectly true. Here is your man-servant, ask him. Surely, surely, Mr. Rushmere, you have enough of manhood left in you not to suffer your wife and poor old father to bear the weight of such a calamity alone?”

“As to father, let him take it. He deserves it all. But for him, you would not be in my shoes, rejoicing that the woman who ought to have been my wife will shortly be yours. You might be contented, I think, without following me like my shadow, to triumph over me.”

“Gilbert Rushmere,” said Mr. Fitzmorris, very gravely, “I never saw Dorothy until after you were the husband of another. Your desertion of her, when you knew how much she loved you, was no deed of your father’s, but your own voluntary act, for he never knew of your marriage until a few days before you came down to Heath Farm. And let me tell you, that any man who could desert such a noble woman as Dorothy Chance for the sake of a few thousand pounds, was most unworthy to be her husband. But she has nothing to do with the matter now in hand. It is profanation to breathe her name in such an assemblage as this. Do you mean to come home with me, or not?”

“I won’t go home in your company. I have nothing to say against you. I believe you to be an honourable man and a gentleman, but I hate you for supplanting me in the affections of the only woman I ever loved. The very sight of you makes me wish to break the sixth commandment.”

“Why act the part of the dog in the manger? You cannot marry Dorothy yourself. Why entertain such uncharitable feelings towards me, because I have taste enough to prize a jewel that you cast from you. Come, Rushmere, let better feelings prevail, dismiss this unreasonable jealousy, and listen to the advice of one who sincerely wishes to be your friend. Can you tell me the amount of this execution? If it is within my power, I will try and settle it, for Dorothy’s sake.”

“You’ll be a—fool for your pains if you do,” and he laughed scornfully. “It is the first, but it will not be the last. I want no man, especially you of all men, to ruin himself for me. Every thing has gone wrong with me since I married that woman. If she would have put her shoulder to the wheel, and worked for me, I would have forgiven her the folly and wickedness of deceiving me. But she does nothing but run up bills, and make me miserable. She’s not a bad looking woman, and I might have learned to love her in time, but there’s no chance of that now. I’m not sorry for this business, for I hope it will be the means of my getting rid of her. Go home, I won’t; they may fight it out the best way they can.” And turning suddenly on his heel, he disappeared among the crowd. Full of grief at his want of success, Mr. Fitzmorris took the road that led to Heath Farm.

Here to his grief and indignation, he was informed by Martha Wood that the old man had been taken off to prison for debt, and the ladies were shut up in their own room, and could not receive visitors. Tired with a long fruitless walk, and feeling sad at heart, he determined to visit Lawrence Rushmere early the next morning, and, if possible, to pay the amount of his debt.

Anxious to save Dorothy from useless distress, he did not inform her of the cause that had kept him away so long. She only remarked, as he kissed her cheek, “My dear Gerard looks tired and paler than usual.”

“Oh, Dolly,” he replied. “It is a sad world; one is never allowed to feel happy in it long. If it were always the paradise that you have made it for the last few weeks, I should never like to leave it. All things, darling, are for the best. The purest pleasures are born in the lap of sorrow, as the brightest sunshine succeeds the darkest storm.”

Directly after breakfast he ordered his horse and gig, and telling Mrs. Martin that he could not be home before night, drove over to the town of –-, in which the gaol was situated.

Before going to visit the old man, he went to the lawyer, at the suit of whose client he had been incarcerated, to discover the amount of the debt, which he found to be under three hundred pounds, including the law costs.

It was a large sum for Mr. Fitzmorris, having expended all he could well spare from his own income in settling his brother’s affairs, paying funeral and law expenses, and other items. Any thought of his own comfort or convenience seldom stayed the too generous hand, that was never held back by selfish motives, if it could possibly relieve the necessity of a fellow creature. “It was only retrenching a few needless luxuries,” he would say, “for a few months or years, and the interest would be amply repaid. There was no bank in which a man could invest his means, which made such ample returns, as the bank of Heaven, in which there was no fear of losing your capital, as it was chartered for eternity.”

He wrote a check upon his banker for the sum, and received the release from Mr. Hodson, the man of business.

“I am afraid, Mr. Fitzmorris, that you have sacrificed this large sum of money to little purpose. This, though certainly the largest claim against the Rushmere estate, is not the only one. It would require more than a thousand pounds to keep the place from the hammer.”

“I thought that Lawrence Rushmere had been a person who had saved money?”

“He had to the amount of a few hundred pounds, but the farm is a very poor one, which, for half a century past, has barely supplied the necessary outlay to continue its cultivation. When the lieutenant returned, the father sacrificed his little earnings, to enter into a speculation with his son, for furnishing horses to the Government, for the use of the army. Such a traffic requires large means, and constant attention. The young man who was the sole manager, got among dissipated companions, from buying horses, to betting upon them, and has not only lost all the money advanced by the father, but has involved himself irretrievably. The creditors thought it better to bring things to a crisis, as the sale of the property might possibly leave a small overplus, to keep the old man from the workhouse.”

“He is such an impatient, obstinate creature,” observed Mr. Fitzmorris, “that he may choose to remain in prison rather than pay these creditors, that he will be sure to regard not as the injured party, but as personal enemies to himself.”

“In that case, you had better retain in your possession the draft you have just given me, until after you have seen and conversed with Lawrence Rushmere.”

“Would it be possible to stay proceedings against the estate, until after Lord Wilton’s return, which is expected daily, and remove the old man from prison? He is so proud and independent, the disgrace of having been inside a gaol will kill him.”

“The creditors, who are all decent yeomen, might be inclined to serve the old man, who has always been respected in the county as an honest fellow. But being associated in this horse traffic with the son, whom they look upon as a great scoundrel, throws more difficulties in the way. The father was unprepared, nay, never expected this blow, or he might have arranged matters to save himself. I could, perhaps, stave off the other creditors, if this first claim were settled, for two or three months, and a bond were given that they should receive their money at the end of that term. The old man who is honest as daylight, might indemnify you by turning over to you the estate, and continue to farm it for your benefit.”

“I will own, Mr. Hodson, that I do not exactly wish to sacrifice my money, for the benefit of Gilbert Rushmere, without he were a reformed character. If the estate were mine, I could give it to Lawrence Rushmere rent free for his life.”

The lawyer promised to make all the necessary arrangements to secure Mr. Fitzmorris from unnecessary loss, and he left him to communicate to the prisoner the result of his morning’s work, and to relieve him from durance.

He found the old man in the debtors’ room, pacing to and fro with a restless stride, which proved how much vigour still remained in the tough heart of oak. On perceiving Mr. Fitzmorris, the caged lion suddenly came to a stand still, and confronted him with a gloomy brow, and proud defiant eye, as he said in a low voice,

“Are you come, Parson, to speak to Lawrence Rushmere in a den like this, to seek an honest man among felons an’ thieves? I was allers laughed at for holding my head so high. I must carry it a foot higher here to look above a lawless set of ruffians and ragamuffins.”

In spite of his affected bravado, the tears stood in the old man’s eyes, and, staggering to a bench, he sunk down helplessly upon it, and covered his face with his hands.

“I came to seek a friend,” said Gerard, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder, “one whom I esteem, or I should not be here.”

“Oh, dang it,” cried Rushmere. “Take off your hand, Mr. Fitzmorris. No offence, I hope, but it do put me in mind o’ the tap that rascal gave me; he said, in the king’s name, as if the king, God bless him, had ever a hand in sending a honest loyal subject like me to prison. I had the satisfaction, however, of knocking the fellow down. It did me good, I can tell you.”

The cold, clear blue eye was lighted up with a gleam of fire, which cast an angry glare around, like a flash of summer lightning leaping from the dark clouds.

“The man was only in the performance of his duty. It was expending your wrath upon a wrong object.”

“He just deserved what he got. None but a rascal would ever fill such a post, none but rascals ever do fill it, men far worse in moral character than the villains they take. An honest man would sweep the streets before he’d earn his living in such a mean way.”

Gerard could scarcely forbear a smile at this tirade, when Rushmere asked him abruptly the cause of his visit.

“To take you out of this place, and carry you back to your own home.”

“And who pays the debt?”

“I have agreed to do that.”

“You! What business ha’ you wi’ paying my debts? If Lawrence Rushmere can’t do that, he must content himsel’ to stay here.”

“You must not refuse me this great favour. Consider me as a son, willing and anxious to serve you.”

At the mention of the word son, the old man sprang to his feet, and, clenching his fist, exclaimed,

“I have no son! The rascal who has brought me to this, wi’ his drinking and gambling, is no son of mine. I disown him now and for ever—and may my curse—”

Mr. Fitzmorris put his hand before the old man’s mouth, and, in a solemn voice that made him fall back a few paces, said,

“Who are you that dare curse a fellow creature, especially a son, though he has rebelled against you? It is committing an outrage against your own soul—against the excellent mother that bore him—against the most High God, who, through his blessed Son, has told us, that only as we forgive those that injure us can we ourselves hope to be forgiven.”

“Oh, Mary, my wife. My dead angel! it is only for your sake I revoke my curse. He be your child, but oh, he has wounded me in the tenderest part.”

Again the old man sank down upon the bench, and, for a few minutes, Gerard thought it best to leave him to his own thoughts. When he seemed more calm, he urged him more earnestly to accompany him back to Hadstone.

“To go back to that she-cat? No, a’ won’t, I tell you. Why, gaol is a paradise compared to living wi’ her. You must not urge me, sir. If I don’t curse the scamp that has brought me to this—I fear I should kill him if we met!”

“But you would not refuse to live with Dorothy?”

“Ah, Dolly—she was a good lass. I have naught to do wi’ her now. It would ha’ been well for me if a’ had never set eyes on her.”

“But Dorothy loves you so sincerely.”

“What, after I have used her so ill? Howsomever, it was a great service I rendered her, when I hindered her from marrying that scoundrel.”

“Unintentionally on your part, my friend. You can take no merit for that. Your son might have turned out a noble character but for that act.”

It was of no use urging the old man to leave the gaol. His pride was offended at the idea of Mr. Fitzmorris paying his debts; he was hurt, too, that Gilbert had sent no message, to let him know how matters really stood, or if there remained any chance of paying the creditors by the sale of the property.

“You see, Mr. Fitzmorris, I trusted all to him. I never thought that my own son would neglect the business and ruin me. No, no, I deserve to be here for my folly, and here I will remain until all the creditors are paid.”

Seeing that he was obstinately bent on adhering to his purpose, Gerard told him that he would send Mr. Hodson to talk the matter over with him, and he would come and see him again when he heard that he had come to a decision. He was willing to give him a fair price for the estate, and let him remain in it rent-free for his life.

The old man seemed struck with this last suggestion, and promised to listen to reason, and so they parted.

On Mr. Fitzmorris’ return to Hadstone, the first news that met his ears was, that Gilbert Rushmere had gone off to parts unknown with Martha Wood, who had dexterously fomented the quarrels between him and his wife to further this object; and that Mrs. Gilbert and her mother had packed up and left for London, “never,” they said, “to return to a beggarly place like Hadstone.”

CHAPTER X.

A LONG CHAPTER.

The various plans formed by Gerard Fitzmorris for the future comfort of Lawrence Rushmere, were temporarily suspended by the receipt of a letter from Lord Wilton, who had just landed in Liverpool with his sad freight.

He earnestly requested his cousin to meet him in London, and join in the melancholy cortège that would accompany the mortal remains of the young viscount to their last resting-place, in the family vault in Hadstone church.

“I have much to say to you, my dear Gerard,” he wrote, “upon the important subject which formed the leading topic in the letters received from you and Dorothy just as I was about to sail for England. But while the arrow rankles in my heart, for the death of a justly beloved son, I cannot yet bring my mind to dwell upon marrying and giving in marriage. This must suffice you both till time has cicatrized the wound. The marriage of my daughter, Dorothy, with the last male representative of our ancient house, cannot fail to be regarded by me with entire satisfaction. I will explain everything when we meet.”

Gerard folded the Earl’s letter and sat for some minutes in deep thought. Most men in his position would have felt more joy than sorrow for the death of a relative they had scarcely known, which made them heir to a title and vast wealth. Gerard Fitzmorris cared very little for either distinction. He had for some time past felt a deep and growing interest in Lord Wilton, and he sympathised with him most sincerely in the loss of a noble and deserving son.

He was much struck by the decided manner in which he had avowed, without entering into the particulars of the case, that Dorothy Chance was his daughter. If legitimately he would have no claim to the earldom, which came through a Granville, and would only be entitled to the baronetcy held by his descent from Sir Thomas Fitzmorris, their mutual grandfather. Dorothy would be Countess of Wilton in her own right.

He could not bring himself to believe, if this were the case, that the Earl would have suffered her to remain so long ignorant of her just position.

Time would explain all, but he could not fathom the mystery. He instantly complied with the Earl’s request to meet him in London. Before he left Hadstone, Dorothy begged, as a great favour, that she might accompany him on his journey as far as –- to take Mr. Rushmere out of gaol, and bring him back to Heath Farm.

“It would be better for me, Gerard, to break to him the elopement of his son, and if he will return with me, to stay with him at the old place, till you come back.”

“Just like my own Dorothy,” he cried, pressing her to his heart. “Go like a good angel, as you are, and my blessing go with you.”

During their journey, Gerard gave his betrothed the Earl’s letter to read, and watched her countenance during the perusal. There was no other passenger inside the coach but themselves. They could talk to each other without reserve. He saw her start, and her cheeks crimson, when she came to the paragraph in which his lordship spoke of her as his daughter.

“Oh, Gerard,” she said, bursting into tears, as her head sank upon his shoulder. “Had I not better go with you to London, to comfort him in his sorrow? My father, my poor father! I can never supply to him the loss of his dear son.”

“Had he wished it, my sweet cousin, he would have made the request. Public taste has dispensed with the presence of female mourners at the funerals of relations and friends. The gentle hearts that loved the truest and the best are denied by the tyrant fashion the blessed privilege of seeing the last sad rites performed for the beloved dead. After Lord Fitzmorris’ funeral your presence will be more needed. It is not until the earth closes her bars for ever on the loved and lost, that we can fully realize the fact that they can no more return to us.”

On reaching the county town, Dorothy and her lover parted—one to act as chief mourner in a solemn and useless pageant, which the good sense of mankind ought to banish from the earth, with all its artificial trappings and hired mourners; the other to visit that grave of the living, a prison, and carry hope and comfort to the care-worn heart of the victim of a cruel and oppressive law, which demands of a man to pay his debts, while it deprives him of the chance of doing so.

Following the directions she had received from Gerard, Dorothy went first to Mr. Hodson, and learned from him that the debt for which her foster-father was in gaol, had been settled by her lover; that everything had been satisfactorily arranged with the other creditors, Rushmere having concluded to sell Heath Farm to Mr. Fitzmorris for the sum of two thousand pounds, which would pay all the demands upon the estate, and leave the old man at liberty.

The dry man of business was much struck by the extraordinary beauty of the young lady, who had deigned to visit his dusty office in behalf of the prisoner, and being a widower of some years’ standing, without any incumbrance in the shape of children, it struck him that so charming a girl would make him an excellent second wife.

With this wise project in his head, he cross-questioned her very closely, on their way to the gaol, as to her parentage and station, to all which questions she gave such frank and straightforward answers, that he soon became acquainted with her private history.

Mr. Hodson had been employed to make old Mrs. Knight’s will, and well remembered the remarkable clause it contained with regard to the child of the poor vagrant found on the Heath, which, if proofs could be actually obtained that Dorothy was the daughter of Alice Knight, whether legitimately or illegitimately, would entitle her to a fortune of thirty thousand pounds, with all its immense accumulations of interest and compound interest, for so many years.

It was a case worth looking into.

The old woman’s death-bed confession, which had been made in his presence, to Mr. Martin, fully established a fact only known to them—that the conscience-stricken murderess of the mother had discovered in the corpse of the poor vagrant, her grandchild; so that all that was now required to entitle her child to inherit this large fortune was the registration of its birth. If it had taken place in any workhouse, or public charitable institution, this might be obtained by offering suitable rewards, without the said Alice Knight had adopted a fictitious name.

As the light began gradually to dawn upon his mind that this lovely girl was no other than Mrs. Knight’s heiress, he rubbed his hands gleefully together, and told his fair visitor, that if she made him her friend, he might be able to put her in the way of obtaining a handsome fortune.

Dorothy laughed, and looked incredulously at the plain, matter-of-fact lawyer.

“How can I do that, sir? I have no money to give you.”

“Not at present, my dear; but you can bestow upon me more than the worth of money, this dear little white hand!”

“Oh!” said Dorothy, snatching her hand from him, before he could convey it to his lips, and without adopting the affectation of pretending not to understand his meaning, “I cannot do that, for it is given away already.”

The lawyer’s fine castle of a moment’s building evaporated slowly into air, as he asked in a disconcerted tone:

“To whom?”

“A gentleman you know quite well. The Reverend Gerard Fitzmorris. It was he that directed me to you.”

“Oh, I see. The gentleman that was here a few days ago, Lord Wilton’s cousin, and successor to the titles and estates. That is, in case the Earl does not marry again. Young lady, I offer you my sincere congratulations, on your prospect of becoming a countess, and I hope,” he continued, with great emphasis, “that you will forgive me, for wishing to secure the affections of such a charming young lady.”

“Oh, certainly. You are not much to be pitied, on so short an acquaintance,” and Dorothy laughed merrily. “Had not the fortune something to do with it?” and she looked archly up in his face.

“No, upon my honour, I was struck with your appearance before you told me who you were. But really, Miss Chance, or Knight, or whatever we can prove your name to be, we must not lose sight of this fortune, and if you will pay me say five thousand pounds provided I am able to establish your claims, will you empower me to take the necessary steps?”

“But should you fail?”

“In that case, I should not claim a farthing.”

“We will consult Gerard and Mr. Martin,” said Dorothy, who thought that this might bring about proofs of her identity, that would satisfy Lord Wilton, and she felt in high spirits at the possible result of such a legal inquiry. So, quite forgetful of the sly lawyer’s proposal to make her his second wife, she chatted with him during their way to the gaol, in the most friendly and confidential manner.

She found Lawrence Rushmere, moping in the corner of the debtor’s room, looking pale and haggard, with beard unshaven, and his uncombed locks falling round his face in tangled confusion. Running up to him, Dorothy flung her arms about his neck and tenderly embraced him. Rushmere looked up, and clasped her to his heart. “Dolly, is that you?”

“Yes, dear father.”

“My dear girl, I be hearty glad to see thee. But what brought’ee, Dolly, to this confounded place?”

“To take you out of it.”

“Where’s Gilbert?” he asked, lowering his voice, and looking cautiously round lest the other debtors should hear him ask after his unworthy son.

“Gone, father, no one knows whither. He went off with that bad girl, Martha Wood, who, I believe, has been at the bottom of all the mischief.”

“The young limb of iniquity. A fit companion for my son. And what has become of the wife?”

“Gone back to London.”

“Joy go with her, she was a bad ‘un. An’ the cunning old witch, the mother?”

“Has left Hadstone never to return.”

“An’ the old place. What have they done with it?”

“It is open to receive you, father, when you return with me. I will soon make it bright and cosy again.”

“Ah, well a day, Dolly. I hardly wish to see it again. It will only remind me o’ happier days, o’ a wife that I loved with my whole heart, o’ a son that I can consider mine no longer. Who would ha’ thought that such an excellent mother could ha’ been parent to such a graceless bairn; that a good beginning should make such a sorry ending? Na, Dorothy, I cannot go back; even the bright black eyed lass, who might ha’ been my daughter, but for my folly, is going to carry joy an’ sunshine into another home. Let me bide, Dorothy, where I be! I can die as well here as in the old homestead.”

“I cannot lose my dear old father yet. Where I am, there shall always be a warm nook by the fireside for him.”

“Dolly, my darling, thou art one in a thousand. Yes, I will go with you. Reach me my hat and staff.”

The shrewd man of business thought with the yeoman that Dorothy was one in a thousand, and was not a little affected by her filial piety. He then accompanied Dorothy and her charge to the inn, and ordered a good dinner at his own expense, for the refreshments of the travellers. Over a glass of excellent home brewed, he told Rushmere of the hopes he entertained of securing Mrs. Knight’s large bequest for the beautiful foundling. This news, however gratifying to the old man, on Dorothy’s account, only served to increase the deep regret that was ever brooding in his mind, that his unreasonable obstinacy had been the cause of Gilbert’s ruin and his own.

It was night when they got to Heath Farm.

Mrs. Martin and the good curate were there to welcome Rushmere back to his old home.

With the assistance of Polly and Mrs. Sly, who had been at work all the day, Mrs. Martin had succeeded in restoring the house to its original order, the absence of which, during the misrule of Mrs. Gilbert’s brief reign, had been such an eye-sore to the sturdy yeoman. He was perfectly astonished, and no less gratified, to find everything in its accustomed place.

A bright fire was roaring up the huge chimney, as in the winter nights long passed away. A comfortable hot supper was smoking on the oak table, which was covered with a spotless cloth of Dorothy’s own spinning. His easy chair in its own place, at the head of the hospitable board, fronting the portrait of his venerated ancestor, which had been cleaned from dust and fly spots, by Mrs. Martin’s own hands.

The grand old soldier of the covenant looked down from his lofty height, and, by the glow of the genial fire, seemed to smile benignantly on his care-worn descendant’s sorrowful face.

The old yeoman fixed his eyes long and lovingly on the time-honoured picture, then, stretching his large hands to the cheerful blaze, muttered to himself,—“The last. Am I to be the last o’ his race that will leave the old place with an untarnished name? Oh, Gilbert! oh, my son! I had expected better things o’ thee.”

The cheerful conversation of the good curate and his wife, and the caresses of Dorothy, succeeded at last in winning Lawrence Rushmere from his melancholy, and something of his former honest hearty expression beamed forth from his clear blue eyes. He joined earnestly in Henry Martin’s beautiful evening prayer, which he declared had done him a world of good, and refreshed his weary spirit. When Dorothy lighted him up to bed, he whispered in her ear at parting, “I thought this morning, Dorothy, that a’ never could feel happy or comfortable agen.”

It had been previously arranged by her friends that Dorothy was to remain at the Farm, as mistress of the establishment, until after Gerard’s return, and do all she could to make her foster-father forget his past sorrows and present desolate position. Though such a result could hardly be expected at his age, she accomplished more than she had anticipated.

She read to him the newspapers, sang to him the old ballads he loved so well, in her clear dulcet voice, and talked to him cheerfully of his future prospects,—of the pleasant days yet in store for him, if he would resolutely abandon vain regrets, and trust in the goodness and mercy of a loving God.

Several days glided tranquilly away before she received a letter from Gerard, which informed her that the funeral procession would reach Hadstone at noon on the following day, when the burial of the young viscount would take place, Lord Wilton and himself being chief mourners, and Mr. Martin reading the service for the dead. He told her that he had found the Earl in better health and spirits than he expected. That his son had died in such a happy frame of mind, that it had done more to establish his belief in the great truths of the Christian religion, than a thousand homilies.

We will pass over the funeral, with all its black and melancholy details, which seem to have been invented by our progenitors to add unnecessary horror to death. The pagan rites of Chinese idolaters have a far more spiritual meaning than our dismal funereal processions. The mourners wear robes of spotless white—young children strew beautiful flowers along the path to the grave, and accompany the dead to their peaceful rest with music and song, rejoicing in the birth of the spirit to a better world.

The day after the funeral, Gerard Fitzmorris came in Lord Wilton’s carriage to bring Dorothy up to Heath Hall, as the Earl was impatient to see her.

On arriving at the stately mansion, they were immediately ushered into the noble library that had haunted Dorothy’s dreams, since the day she first met her titled father.

The Earl was standing, with folded arms, before the portrait of his beautiful mother, the resemblance between her and Dorothy having been rendered yet more striking by the air of refinement that education, and the society of superior minds, had given to the latter.

At the sound of her light steps, the Earl held out his arms. Dorothy sank upon his breast, only uttering the simple word, “Father!”

“My child, my beloved child!”

For a long while he held her where nature had placed her, next his heart, and they mingled their tears together. Gerard walked to the window not less affected by their emotion.

The Earl at length mastered his feelings, and, placing Dorothy on a sofa, he called Gerard to him, and taking a seat between them, held firmly a hand of each.

“My dear children,” he said, in a voice that still trembled with emotion, “the time for an explanation, of what must seem to you a strange and needless mystery, has arrived; and while I reveal my past sins and folly, I beg your earnest attention and forgiveness.

“You, Dorothy Chance, are my child, born in lawful wedlock, the only fruit of my marriage with Alice Knight, the beautiful and unfortunate young protégée of my mother, Lady Dorothy Granville.

“You both know that I was a younger son. My eldest brother, Sir Thomas, being a strong healthy young man, I never entertained the least expectation of being called to fill his place. I was proud and poor, depending solely for my future position on my mother’s jointure at her death, and my chance of rising in the army.

“I was always haunted by a terrible dread of poverty, not that I loved money for its own sake, for I was reckless in the extravagant expenditure of my limited means, but I valued it for the power and prestige that it always confers upon its fortunate possessors. To be esteemed as a man of fortune by the world, was at that time the height of my ambition, I was not aware of the little satisfaction that mere wealth, unconnected with better things, confers.

“My grandfather, the late earl, had early singled me out as his future heir. I was his godson, and had been called after him, Edward Granville. He did not like my eldest brother, who was an honest, generous fellow, frank and independent to a fault, the very beau ideal of a soldier and a gentleman. He never would condescend to flatter the avaricious old man for the sake of his money.

“My grandfather had a high veneration for rank, a feeling which my dear mother shared with him in common; both had an unmitigated horror of a mésalliance. This terror of mingling their pure old Norman blood with any one of inferior degree took a strong possession of my own mind, which was greatly strengthened by the often reiterated threat of the proud old aristocrat, that if I married beneath my rank, I should never possess a shilling of his vast wealth.

“This great fortune he inherited from an uncle, who for many years had been governor of India, and died childless. I must confess that I was dreadfully jealous of the infant sons of his youngest daughter, by a second marriage. Not so much of you, Gerard, who, from an infant, shewed a proud and independent spirit; you were a sturdy democrat from your very cradle, and fearlessly urged the rights of man to the old earl, and laughed at his absurd prejudices, as unworthy and truly ignoble.

“I entered hotly into all the vices and follies of a young man of fashion. The Earl forgave all these peccadilloes, paid my gambling debts, and excused every fault, so long as I flattered his weakness, and held his opinions. My regiment was ordered to America, and I saw some hot service, and soon acquired rank and position in the army. On my return to England, the Earl used his great influence to get me into Parliament. His wealth overcame all opposition, and I made no insignificant figure in the house, and was considered a rising young man of great promise.

“It was during this period, the brightest and best in my life, as far as my worldly interests were concerned, that I married, with my grandfather’s consent, the Lady Lucia Montressor, who, though an earl’s daughter, was one of a large family of girls, who had no claims to wealth, but were handsome, accomplished women, looking out for rich and advantageous settlements. As the reputed favourite of the rich Earl Wilton, and considered by the public a man of talent, mine was considered a very eligible position.

“I was really attached to my young wife, and sincerely grieved when she died in her beautiful girlhood, leaving me the father of a fine boy, only a few hours old.

“My dear mother was much interested in my bereavement, and took home my motherless infant, while I went abroad on a secret mission for the Government. It was during my absence that lasted over two years, that she saw the neglected grand-daughter of a woman by the name of Knight, who kept a shop furnished with expensive foreign silks and laces, and much frequented by ladies of rank in the town of Storby.

“Struck with the extraordinary beauty of the girl, who was in her fifteenth year, she took her under her own protection, to be nursery governess to my little Edward, and wait exclusively upon her person.

“When I returned to Heath Hall, I found this incomparable girl, high in favour with Lady Dorothy, whom she accompanied with the child, in all her walks and drives. In this way we were often thrown together, when I found the charms of her mind equal to the graces of her person. I fell madly in love with her, and it was only then that I realised the truth that I had not loved before. My frantic passion absorbed my whole being. Obliged to be wary, I could make no outward demonstration of my admiration for my beautiful Alice, for fear of alarming the jealousy of my mother, which restraint served only to increase the vehemence of my attachment. To my infinite joy, I discovered that it was mutual.

“The fear of losing my grandfather’s patronage and with it his fortune, for a long while presented, as I supposed, an inseparable barrier to my making her my wife. To my grief and shame be it spoken, if I could have obtained her on less honourable terms, I should not have hesitated in adopting such an infamous course, but I found the innocent girl as virtuous as she was fair.

“Then the thought struck me of marrying her privately and enjoining upon her the strictest secresy, until after the death of my rich relative should leave me at liberty, to make a public acknowledgment that she was my lawful wife. To this arrangement, Alice readily consented. An opportunity was not long in presenting itself.

“Lady Dorothy spent a few weeks every summer at Bath. On this occasion I went with her; and Alice, as a matter of course, accompanied us with my child, of whom she was passionately fond, and I believe the little fellow loved her with as much devotion as he did his father.

“There was a small retired old church, which, though belonging to the parish in which we lodged, was never frequented by aristocratic worshippers; my aunt having engaged seats in one situated in a more fashionable quarter of the town, where a celebrated preacher drew together large congregations.

“In the little church of St. Mary’s, Alice and I were married by banns, and the old superannuated incumbent delivered our names to his small flock in such mumbling tones, that they were unrecognised among a long string of unknown and unhonoured ones. Early one morning after the third publication of the said banns we were united by the old clergyman, whom I bribed pretty highly to keep our secret.

“And we were happy, blessed beyond measure in our boundless love. If she had been dear to me before, she was doubly so now; if ever a man worshipped a woman, I did her. Our stolen meetings used to take place in a lonely unfrequented opening in the park, beneath the shade of a large oak tree. There we were once nearly surprised by poor Henry Martin, who had been brought up with Alice, and still entertained for her a violent passion.

“Our dream of happiness vanished only too soon. My mother had gone to make a visit to the seat of a nobleman, about thirty miles distant, and could not return till next day, when I received a sudden notice from Government that my services were required in a most important mission to the court of Russia, and that I must leave for London without a moment’s delay.

“My uncle had been very active in obtaining for me this appointment, which, if well conducted, might lead to the governorship of some important colony among the British possessions. I dared not hesitate in accepting a post from which such great future results were to be expected. Even for her sake it behoved me to go.

“But how could I leave Heath Hall without one last embrace, one last farewell to the beloved?

“I got this appointment by the evening mail, and had to appear in London by ten o’clock the next morning, receive my dispatches, and sail immediately for St. Petersburgh, where it is probable that I might be detained for some months. I was, however, determined, if possible, to see her before I went, and rode a noble horse to death to obtain that object.

“When I arrived at –- Hall, it was long past midnight, the family had retired to rest, and the idea of obtaining an interview with my wife was utterly preposterous. I had nothing for it but to return to the London road, which skirted the park, and wait for the coming up of the night mail, my impatience having out-ridden the coach.

“I was so dreadfully fatigued with my previous ride, that I had scarcely taken my seat before I fell asleep, and did not awake until the rumbling of the wheels upon the stones told me that I was in London.

“Though dreadfully pressed for time, I wrote a brief letter to Alice, explaining the reason of my absence, and directing her to write to me through my agent in town. In a postscript I charged her most solemnly to keep our secret if she valued my peace and happiness. She had hidden from me the important fact of her pregnancy.

“My poor darling kept our secret only too well. It was during that visit to –- Hall that some prying domestic discovered her situation, which was whispered to other members of the household, till it reached my mother’s ears.

“I can well imagine Lady Dorothy’s grief and indignation. A woman of stern morality, she was not very likely to forgive a dependent to whom she had been a sincere friend. Calling Alice into her presence, she taxed her with her crime, and demanded of her to name the father of the child. This the poor girl steadily refusing to do, my mother reproached her with ingratitude, and dismissed her from her service before she returned to Heath Hall.

“I can well imagine the despair of the dear young wife when she found, upon reaching Storby, that I had left the country; no one could tell whither, without letting her know the cause of my seeming desertion. She never could have received my letter, though I paid a private messenger highly to deliver it into her own hand.

“In this emergency she applied to her grandmother for protection, who, at first, ignorant of her cause for leaving Lady Dorothy, received her into the house. I have no doubt that had she taken the wise course of making a confidant of this wicked old woman, her pride and avarice would have been so highly gratified, that she would have given her a home without paying any regard to the disgrace attached to her name.

“The discovery of her situation exasperated the old woman to fury. She did not even ask for an explanation, but thrust her from her doors with cruel words and coarse usage.

“Thus far, I was informed by a man who waited in the shop, who told me that he was so much affected by the distressed looks of the affrighted girl, that it moved him to tears. After the shop was closed, he sought her through the town, but no one had seen or could give him any account of her retreat.

“A report got into circulation, which made my mother very sorry for the part she had played in this tragedy, that Alice Knight had walked into the sea when the tide was coming in, and buried her shame and sorrow in the waves. I never could believe this story. I felt in my soul that she was still living, and loved me too well to have taken such a rash and wicked step. From the hour she left Mrs. Knight’s house, her fate remained till very lately a mystery. How she passed the intervening period between the birth of Dorothy and her own melancholy death while in search of me will never be accurately known.

“I was retained at the Court of St. Petersburgh for nearly three years. I wrote constantly under cover to my agent, to Alice, often sending her large sums of money, and was astonished when my man of business informed me after the lapse of twelve months, that all my letters had been returned from the dead letter office, as no such person as Alice Knight was to be found.

“I then wrote to Lady Dorothy, confessing to her that I was the father of Alice Knight’s child, and imploring her to tell me what had become of the mother and her babe.

“Lady Dorothy died before this letter reached England, and her father, the Earl of Wilton, only survived her a few weeks, leaving to me the fortune for which I had sacrificed my wife and child, too late to afford me any pleasure.

“The death of my eldest brother, which happened abroad, gave Lady Dorothy such a shock that she never got over it. I thus suddenly and unexpectedly became a wealthy and titled man.

“I had married in the summer of the year 1797, and returned to England in July, 1800. On my way to Hadstone, I must have passed over the heath, during that dreadful storm, unconscious that the beloved object whose loss had plunged me into a state of incurable grief, was dying, exposed to its pitiless fury, in the wet hollow beneath.

“From that hour until I met Dorothy, I could obtain no reliable information concerning my poor wife. When this dear girl first presented herself before me, and I saw in the glass the wonderful likeness, (which you, Gerard, cannot fail to recognize) between the country girl and my aristocratic mother, and through her to me, and heard the sound of her voice, so like my lost wife’s, I could hardly refrain from clasping her in my arms, and telling her that she was my child.

“The story of her mother’s sad fate, the sight of the ring with which we were married, which belonged to my first wife, and had her initials and my own engraved on the reverse side, and the tress of Alice’s exquisite golden brown hair, corresponding with a lock, which, at that moment, was lying next my heart, removed all doubts, if such indeed had ever existed, that the poor dead wanderer was my wife.”

“Forgive me, my lord, for interrupting you,” said Gerard. “But how could you, being satisfied that this was the case, encourage an alliance between Dorothy and Gilbert Rushmere, a person so inferior to her in birth?”

“She loved him, Gerard; was quite unconscious of her real position, and I thought the knowledge of it would not conduce to her happiness, if it separated her from her lover. Rank and wealth had been the means of destroying mine for ever. Besides my son was living, and likely to live, and I had no wish to reveal to the world that sad and blotted page in my life, for the sake of securing an heir.

“Had Alice lived, I should have owned her as my wife to the world, exhibited the proofs of our marriage, and there the matter would have ended. But in legally claiming Dorothy, I should subject myself to the most painful and humiliating investigations, which going the rounds of the public papers, would be bruited abroad throughout the land. My children,” he cried, in a tone of earnest entreaty, “it is in your power to save me from this terrible degradation.”

A frown was gathering upon Gerard’s brow, and he said, with some asperity:

“My lord, I do not quite understand your meaning. If you possess the legal proofs of Dorothy’s legitimacy, you surely would not rob her of her birthright, to cover your own sin.”

“What does it matter to her, Gerard? if she becomes your wife, she would still be Countess of Wilton. I am certain by what I know of Dorothy’s unselfish character, that she would rather receive her title through her husband than through a law process, which would make her father the most miserable of men.

“What do you say, my daughter—will you insist upon the legal restitution of your rights, or be contented to receive them through your husband?”

Dorothy rose from the Earl’s supporting arms, and stood up before him, her eyes brightened, and a vivid flush crimsoned her cheeks, as she said, with an air of decision, which admitted of no misinterpretation:

“My lord, I care neither for rank nor wealth. The vindication of my mother’s honour is dearer to me than either. I will not bear the title of your daughter branded with an epithet I need not name.”

“Dorothy is right,” replied Gerard. “I would not purchase her birthright on such dishonest terms. It would be a cruel injustice to both mother and daughter to let them bear the brand of shame, which a small sacrifice of personal vanity could remove.”

The Earl remained for a long time leaning his head upon his clasped hands, without speaking. At length, looking up with a deep sigh, he said, “Gerard, you press me very sore. I declare to you that I would rather die than expose my mental weakness in a court of justice.”

“It will clear your character from a foul stigma, my lord, the seduction of a beautiful young girl, and her supposed death in consequence of your desertion. But have you positive proofs of Dorothy being her child?”

“I had not, until the day before I wrote to Dorothy, and I obtained them by a most singular chance.

“When going up to London to meet my poor Edward, a wheel came off my carriage, and it required the aid of a blacksmith to repair the damage. I walked forward to the village, and went into a neat public house, while my servants found a smith. I thought I recognized in the master of the house an old tenant of mine, who had once kept a similar place of entertainment at Thursten, the village on the north of Hadstone.

“Years had changed me so much, that he scarcely knew me again. After talking for some time about indifferent subjects, he told me, that the very day before, he had stumbled over a letter, that was given to him by a poor, miserable, sickly young woman, who stopped at his house late one July evening, eighteen years ago, and begged for a cup of milk and a bit of bread for her child, a beautiful little black eyed girl, barely two years old. ‘My missus asked her,’ he said, ‘who she was, and where she was going?’ She replied,

“‘That she had friends in Storby, whom she wanted to see. That she was very ill, and was going home to them to die. But in case she was too weak to get there, she wished me to send a letter she had in her pocket to Lord Wilton, as she expected that if he were at the Hall he would help her.’

“‘I took the letter, and thought that it was only some begging petition, and of little consequence, and our people were busy in the hay-field, and I forgot all about it. In the autumn I removed with my family to this place. I heard of the death of a young person answering to the description of the poor young woman, who had been at my house on the night of the tenth of July, who had been found on the heath by farmer Rushmere, who had adopted the little girl, but did not trouble myself to go and see the corpse.

“‘A few weeks ago, my wife died, and in looking over some of her little traps, to find a receipt, I stumbled on this letter, and though I daresay it is of little consequence to your lordship, or to any one else now, I may as well give it to you.’

“This long forgotten document, contained a few lines from my poor Alice, enclosing the registration of the birth of Dorothy, in the lying-in hospital in London. You will find it enclosed in the packet I sent to Dorothy in case I should never return to England, and it fully identifies her as my child, and heiress to the title and estate of Wilton. There is, therefore, no difficulty in a legal point of view, and if you are both determined not to spare my feelings in the matter, I will immediately take the necessary steps for her recognition as my daughter.”

“I would, dearest father, willingly save you from any exposure, as far as I am myself concerned,” replied Dorothy. “But would it be just to my poor mother? I am certain that your own good heart will acquiesce in my decision, that when you come to reflect more deeply on the matter, you will own that I am right. If this proof had been wanting, I think another one could have been obtained.”

She then related her interview with Mr. Hodson, and his proposal of trying to gain legal evidence of her being the child of Alice Knight, in order to put her in possession of the large fortune left to her by her grandmother, which, if followed up, would likewise involve the discovery of her title to the estates of Wilton.

“What I am to do with all this wealth puzzles me,” she continued. “It is a great trust placed in my hands by the Almighty, which will enable me, if rightly applied, to do much good to my less fortunate fellow creatures.”

The Earl folded her in his arms.

“Dorothy, my beloved child! you have conquered, for you are more righteous than your father. May the blessing of the merciful God, who has watched over you all the days of your life, for ever rest upon your head. I have been weak and cowardly. You have proved yourself great and noble, and well worthy of your happy destiny.”

CHAPTER XI.

A PAINFUL RECOGNITION.

Immediate steps were now taken by the Earl to establish Dorothy’s claims, and while the suit was pending, he yielded to her earnest request to remain at Heath Farm with her old protector, Lawrence Rushmere, who was still ignorant of the great future anticipated for his adopted daughter.

The old yeoman had grown so fond of her since the desertion of his son, that he could hardly bear her out of his sight. The responsibilities of a lofty station weighed heavily on her mind, and there were moments when she sincerely wished her lot might be cast midway between poverty and riches, and she might avoid the humiliation of the one, and great temptations incidental to the other.

There never was a period in her life when pride exerted so little influence over her, or she thought more humbly of herself. She became pensive and silent, and, being now entirely exempt from domestic drudgery, passed much of her time in reading and serious reflection.

Gerard remarked the change that had passed over Dorothy, but attributed it to the extreme conscientiousness of her character, which made her consider herself unfitted by previous habits and education to fill a lofty station. Once, when she had opened her mind to him on the subject, and not without tears, lamented her ignorance of the usages of fashionable society, and wished that she could have remained with him always in the country, the happy and useful wife of a village pastor. He gently chid her for her want of faith.

“You possess qualities, Dorothy, that are truly noble, that would do honour to any station. Human nature is the same in every class, and those who have prized you when only a country girl, working in the fields, will not hold you in less estimation when transported to a higher sphere. Only retain the same natural unaffected manners, that charmed my heart in simple Dorothy Chance, and I know enough of the society you so much dread, to assure you that you need not feel the least alarm for the result.”

But Dorothy still doubted and feared, and shrunk from the public expressions of interest and curiosity, which could not fail to be exerted in her case.

When Lord Wilton determined to do what was right, he became happy and contented, and never let a day pass without paying her a visit to inform her how the suit was progressing. Lawrence Rushmere marvelled at the Earl’s condescension, and was so won over by his kindness, that he no longer regarded him as his hereditary enemy. One day the portrait of the soldier of the Covenant caught the Earl’s eye. He started up to examine it, then turned to Rushmere, and spoke with animation.

“I have often heard of that picture, and feel as proud of my descent from that glorious old fellow as you do, who are his lineal representative, and bear his name.”

“How do you make that out, my lord?” said the yeoman. “It is the first time I ever heard that the blood of a Rushmere ran in the veins of a Fitzmorris.”

“You don’t seem greatly honoured by the relationship,” returned the Earl, laughing. “But whether or no, what I say is strictly true. My grandfather, Sir Lawrence Fitzmorris, was grandson to that famous roundhead, by his eldest daughter Alena, and bore his Christian name. You and I, my worthy old friend, are cousins in the third degree; will you acknowledge me as a kinsman?”

“Aye, that a’ wull wi’ my heart in my hand,” cried Rushmere, grasping the nobleman’s outstretched hand, who could have dispensed with at least one half of the energetic pressure that compressed his thin white fingers within the strong grip of the honest tiller of the soil.

“Dear, dear!” he continued, “if a’ had only known that afore, I should ha’ thought a deal more o’ your Lordship.”

“I have something to tell you which will surprise you much more, Lawrence. This little girl, Dorothy, whom you adopted as your own, is descended from him too.”

“Now, my lord, you be surely making fun o’ me; for nobody in the world knows who Dolly’s mother was, still less her father. I ha’ been puzzling my brain about that secret for the last sixteen years, without finding it out. It was the want of knowing who she was, that has ruined both me and my son.”

“She is my daughter, Lawrence. The poor woman that you found dead on Hadstone Heath, was Alice Knight, a beautiful girl, whom you may remember was adopted by my mother, Lady Dorothy. She was my wife, and the mother of our Dorothy.”

“The Lord a’ mercy!” cried Rushmere, starting to his feet. “An’ you let the poor lass die for want, an’ her child work for her bread, in the house of a stranger. You may call yourself noble, an’ all that, Lord Wilton, but I should feel prouder of the relationship of a poor, honest man.”

“I do not blame you, Rushmere. My conduct, from the view you take of it, must appear atrocious indeed. But I was as ignorant of the facts as you were.”

“But how could your lawful wife come to such a state o’ destitution? Did a’ play you false?”

“I will tell you how it all happened,” returned Lord Wilton, “and you will be more ready to forgive me, as the unfortunate worship of the golden calf, which I find is an hereditary sin, brought about this unhappy affair.”

Drawing his seat beside the old yeoman, he told him the story the reader has just learned from the preceding chapter, patiently submitting to his blunt cross-questioning on many points, that could not fail to be very distressing to his feelings.

“Well, my lord,” he said, when he had listened with intense interest to the said history, “I am sartain sure I should ha’ done exactly as you did. Such a fortin as that very few men could ha’ resisted. It was a sore temptation, there’s no doubt. I allers thought that yon poor creature had been summat above her condition. She had bonny hair, an’ the smallest foot an’ hand in the world. People that work hard, allers show it most in the extremities. Labour calls out the muscles and sinews, makes the limbs large, an’ gives breadth more than height to the figure, tans the complexion, an’ makes it ruddy an’ coarse. To such as I this be real beauty, but you lords of the creation prefer a white skinned, die away, half dead an’ alive sort o’ a cretur, to a well grown healthy buxom lass like our Dorothy, who ha’ grown up just as God made her, whom all the delicate women folk envy, an’ all the young men are mad arter. She be just what I call a beauty.”

Dorothy laughed at her foster-father’s ideas of real beauty, and told him that she was not at all flattered by his description, as she was very much afraid the gentle folks would consider it “barn-yard beauty.”

“Don’t you mind what they call it, my Lady Dorothy. I ‘spose I must call you so now. You need not be ashamed to show your face anywhere; all I be afeared on is this, that when you go home to live in the grand old Hall, that belonged to him,” pointing up to the picture, “you’ll forget the cross old man who was father to you, when you had none. An’ you might ha’ been my own darter too,” he added, with a sigh, “but for my greed. An’ your children an’ Gilbert’s might have inherited the home of my ancestors. I was nigh cursing Gilbert ‘tother day, but Gilly has more cause to curse me. Alack, alack, what poor miserable blind creatures we be! It is well for us, that God’s providence is at work behind it all.”

“Father, you need never fear my forgetting you,” said Dorothy; “I have known this change in my fortunes a long time; and have you found any alteration in my regard?”

“An’ did a’ wait upon the old man for the last three months, an’ knew a’ was a titled lady all the time?”

“I’m not a titled lady to you, dear father, but always your own little Dorothy. Where I am—you must go too, and when I leave Heath Farm, you will have to go to Heath Hall, for I cannot live without you; and kind Mrs. Brand has prepared a nice room for you; and we will try and make you forget all the past troubles,” and she put her arm round his neck and kissed him.

“Rushmere, I shall grow jealous of you,” said Lord Wilton, “if my daughter bestows on you more kisses than she gives me. What Dorothy says is perfectly true; she considers you too old to trouble about the farm, that it is high time you should rest from labour. You must allow her to have her own way in this matter. I have no doubt that she will contrive to make you happy.”

A week later, and Dorothy’s claims were established on a legal basis, and all the country rang with the romantic tale.

Mrs. Lane put on her best bonnet and hurried up to Nancy Watling, with the newspaper in her hand. She had run every step of the way, a good half mile, for fear Miss Watling should hear the news from any one else, and when she burst into the parlour, she was too much out of breath to speak.

Miss Watling ran upstairs for her smelling bottle, thinking that the good woman was going to faint. By the time, however, that she reached the parlour, the vendor of small wares had recovered the use of her tongue.

“Well, Miss Watling,” she cried, still panting, “the mystery’s all out at last. Dorothy Chance is Lord Wilton’s own daughter! and that poor beggar woman, as you was used to call her, was no other than Alice Knight, rich old Mrs. Knight’s daughter, whom the Earl’s good mother adopted, and he married unbeknown to her.”

“I’ll not believe a word of it!” said Nancy, resolutely.

“Why, woman, it’s all here in the paper,” and Mrs. Lane tapped the important document significantly, “and as true as gospel. Do you suppose the Earl would allow the newspapers to meddle with his private affairs? Don’t you hear the bells ringing; and if you come down to the village with me, you’ll see all the flags a flying, and them who has no flags, puts out o’ their windows quilts and hankerchers. Oh, it’s true, true, and I be right glad on it. I allers did think Dorothy Chance a fine girl.”

“I wonder how her ladyship bears her new dignity?” said Miss Watling, waspishly.

“As meek as a lamb,” returned Mrs. Lane.

“How the old man will fret and fume that Gilbert did not marry her. It serves him right, at any rate.”

“How money do make people turn about,” continued Mrs. Lane. “It was only this time last year that I heard you praise old Rushmere for turning Dorothy out o’ doors. Before another week is over, you will be boasting of her acquaintance.

“Good morning, Nancy, I can’t stay longer. The butcher has promised to give me a cast in his cart, as far as Barfords. I know Jane Barford will be glad of any good that happens to Dorothy.”

And off went the little bustling woman to spread the glad tidings in every house she passed.

Miss Watling’s envy of Dorothy was greatly diminished by her exaltation to rank and fortune. She was now too far above her to provoke competition, and she began to praise what she could not pull down.

Mrs. Lane was right, when she anticipated the hearty congratulations of Mrs. Barford; even Letty stopped her churn, and, clapping her hands, said:

“Who wud ha’ thought that we shud ever have a titled lady for a dairy maid, or that a countess wud nurse my boy, Tommy. It do seem jist like a fairy tale.”

“Yes,” returned old Mrs. Barford, “and Dorothy may be considered as the queen of the fairies. If Gilbert’s in England, I wonder what he will say to all this? As to Dorothy, she had a good miss of him. They do say that he made that other woman a wretched husband.”

“I’m thinking,” said Letty, sententiously, “that it wor the wretch o’ a woman that made him a bad wife. What he could see in that dirty, impudent wench, Martha Wood, to run off wi’ un, ‘stonishes I more than’s marrying yon stuck up Gallimaufry from Lunnon.”

“Nothing need astonish you, Letty, that is done by a drunken man. But in this matter of Dorothy Chance, Lawrence Rushmere was more to blame than his son, and a fine mess he has made of it. Howsomever, I don’t believe that people can marry just whom they like. God mates them, and not man, or we should not see such strange folk come together.”

“If that be true, mother,” cried Letty, with unusual vivacity, “how can yer go on from day to day, fretting an’ nagging, an’ blaming Joe for marrying I? If I had to be his wife, he wor forced to take I, whether or no.”

This was rather a poser to Mrs. Barford’s favourite theory, on which much might be said for and against, and which still remains an unsolved enigma. The old lady was wont to excuse her own imprudent marriage on the score of its being her fate. She took up her knitting and began rattling her pins vigorously, as if perfectly unconscious of her daughter-in-law’s sensible remark.

There was one, however, to whom the change in Dorothy’s social position brought no joy, producing the most bitter disappointment, and giving rise to vindictive and resentful feelings. This was Gilbert Rushmere.

Before leaving Heath Farm with Martha Wood, he had secured a tolerably large sum of money by the sale of the farm horses, which had been accomplished without the knowledge of his father. With this sum, it was his intention of taking his passage to America; but meeting in London some of his gambling associates, they had prevailed upon him to stay, until fleeced in his turn of all his ill-gotten store, he was reduced to the necessity of acting as a decoy duck, in a low tavern, which was the common resort of men even yet more fallen and degraded than himself.

He was sitting maudling over a strong potation of gin and water, after a night of riot and debauchery, in an underground kitchen in this den of infamy, striving to drown the recollection of former respectability in the maddening glass. His red bloated face, unshaven chin and matted hair, contrasted painfully with the faded uniform that seemed to claim for its wearer the title of a gentleman.

It is not the murderer alone who bears upon his brow the stamp of Cain. Vice marks all her degraded victims with an unerring sign, which reveals to the spectator the depths of their debasement. This sign is so distinctly traceable in the countenance of a wicked man, that a little child—nay even a dog—alike unconscious of the cause of this physical degradation, sees that something is wrong, and shrinks instinctively from his companionship. If a good man feels it difficult to maintain the straight onward path of prescribed duty, the downward career of the wicked man has no stumbling blocks in the way. Every step accelerates his speed, till he gains, by a final plunge in deeper guilt, the dreadful goal.

That miserable man, in his half conscious state, with his unwashed face and soiled garments, and brutalized expression, is a sad illustration of such a frightful career.

Scarcely a year has expired, when, a brave, honest soldier, he was respected by his comrades, the pride of his parents, and the beloved of a virtuous woman, and held an honourable and independent position. He then gave a fair promise of becoming a useful member of society. Look at him now leaning on that dirty table, drivelling over the accursed liquor, for which he has bartered body and soul, and to obtain which he has to herd with ruffians yet more fallen and degraded than himself.

His shameless companion deserted him when he was no longer able to gratify her vanity, by the purchase of fine clothes and bogus jewellery. Of his wife and her mother he neither knows nor cares, and never names them without a curse, as the author of his misery.

His glass is out, and he is just going to fling himself upon the dirty floor, to sleep off the headache due to last night’s shameless orgies. “Hullo! Rush! You’re not going to sleep?” cries one of the gang, entering in his shirt sleeves, with a newspaper in his hand. “In less than an hour you’ll have plenty of work to do. If you are in your senses rouse up and read this, to keep your eyes open till the governor wants you.”

Rubbing his eyes with a dreadful oath, and wishing his companion in the place to which he is himself fast hastening, Gilbert staggered up, and sat down once more by the greasy table.

“It’s hard that you won’t leave me alone, Boxer. This life’s killing me. My head aches confoundedly. I want to go sleep, ‘to forget my misery,’ as that jolly old dog, Solomon, has it, ‘and remember my poverty no more.’”

“This paper will wake you up. It’s the history of your old sweetheart, Dolly, that you are always boring me about. Not that I believe a word of all that now. Not a very likely tale that such a girl as that would have anything to say to such a chap as you. A nice fellow, an’t you, for a lady of rank to break her heart about.”

“Don’t bother me!” yawned Gilbert. “If there’s anything worth hearing, can’t you tell me without my having the trouble to read it.”

“There—see for yourself,” cries the other, flinging the paper at his head. “My eyes! but you lost a fine chance, if ever it was in your power to win it.”

Gilbert mechanically picked up the paper, and went to a dresser under the only window in the room to find out what his companion meant.

The columns were filled with the termination of the famous suit that had pronounced Dorothy Chance the legitimate daughter of Lord Wilton, and secured to her the accumulated wealth left by her grandmother, Mrs. Knight.

Whether it was the liquor that had maddened him, the sense of his own degradation, or the full consciousness of all that he had lost, by his cruel desertion of Dorothy, the news contained in that paper rendered him furious. He raved and swore—cursing his own folly and his father’s avarice, that had hindered him from being the fortunate possessor of all this wealth. For Dorothy herself he no longer cared. He had sunk too low in the mire of iniquity to love a pure and virtuous woman; but the idea of another possessing her, filled him with rage and envy, and he swore with a terrible oath that Dorothy Chance should never be the wife of Gerard Fitzmorris; that he would have his revenge or die in the attempt.

His vicious comrades laughed at him, and made fun of his awful imprecations, but the gloomy determination in his eyes proved that he at least was not in joke.

What a mercy it is that people are generally unconscious of the evils plotting against them, that the sorrows of the coming hour are hid beneath the folded wings of the future.

While her quondam lover was plotting all sorts of mischief against her, to disturb her peace, Dorothy had taken her first journey to London, in company with her father. Her presence was necessary to sign important papers, and to prepare a suitable outfit for her marriage, which was to take place the first of May.

A noble suite of apartments had been prepared at Heath Hall for the reception of the bride and bridegroom on their return to Hadstone, after their bridal tour, which, owing to Gerard’s strict notions of the sacred obligations of his profession, and the little time that a faithful pastor can afford to devote to his own gratification, was to be of short duration,—embracing a brief visit to the Highlands of Scotland, and a glance at the English lakes on their homeward route.

To a young girl brought up in the seclusion of a very retired country life, who can catch but a faint echo from the great world to which she is an entire stranger, the metropolis, seen at a distance, through the dazzling medium of the imagination, is believed to be a wonderful place; a city full of enchantments, where beauty and wealth meet you at every turn, and cares and sorrows are forgotten in an endless round of dissipation and pleasure. The reality of those diversions and enjoyments soon makes them distasteful to a sensitive and reflective mind, who can discern the sharp thorns thickly studding the stem of the rose, and who will not sacrifice peace of mind and integrity to secure the fleeting flowers of popular applause.

Dorothy, whose tastes were all simple and natural, felt lonely and disappointed in the crowded streets of the great city. Their amusements and pursuits were so different to those to which she had been accustomed, that it required time and reflection to reconcile her to the change.

She cared very little for expensive jewels and magnificent attire, and did not feel at home in the splendid halls and saloons of the wealthy and high-born. When arrayed for the first time in a costume befitting her rank, to attend a great ball given by the beautiful Duchess of–-, and led before the mirror to admire the charming image it reflected, the simple girl shocked her lady’s maid—a very great lady indeed in her own estimation—by turning from the glass and bursting into tears.

Her romantic story had excited the greatest interest in the public mind. Crowds collected round the Earl’s town residence to catch a glimpse of his beautiful daughter when she took a drive in the carriage, and men and women vied with each other in extolling the charms of her person and the unaffected grace of her deportment. Songs were made and sung in her praise, and wherever she appeared she was forced to submit to the flatteries and adulations of a crowd of admirers.

This was all very painful to Dorothy; it oppressed her, restrained her natural freedom, and rendered her a silent passive observer in the society in which she might have shone. She was not insensible to the admiration of the new friends, who had so graciously received her into their charmed circle, but she longed to get out of it, and find herself once more in the country.

She wrote daily to her lover an account of all she heard and saw, which helped to beguile the tedium of a separation. In answer to a paragraph in one of his letters, she said:—

“You are afraid, dear Gerard, that I may be induced to forget you, surrounded by so many admirers; that all this gaiety and ball-going may give me a taste for frivolous amusements, and spoil my heart. It cannot damage what it never touches—I hardly know I have a heart; it lies so still under this weight of jewels and brocade. It is only in the silence of my own chamber, when my thoughts flow back to you, that it awakes to life and happiness.

“Everything strikes me as hollow and false, in the life I am at present compelled to lead. People live for the world and its opinions, and not for each other, still less for God. They dare not be simple and natural, and love the truth for its own sake—the blessed truth that would set them free from all these conventional forms and ceremonies, that shackle the soul and deaden all its heavenward aspirations. You will laugh at me, Gerard, when I declare to you that I have experienced more real enjoyment in working among the new-mown hay, and inhaling its delicious perfume, when the skylark was warbling in the blue heaven above me, than I have ever known in these crowded palaces, following the dull routine of what my noble young friends term pleasure. You need not fear such gorgeous insipidities will ever wean me from the love of nature, or make me indifferent to the quiet happiness of a country life, the higher enjoyment of being useful and striving to benefit others.”

On several occasions, when riding out with her father, Dorothy had been startled by observing a face in the crowd that bore a strong resemblance to Gilbert Rushmere, but haggard and degraded, regarding her with a fixed scowling stare of recognition, from which she shrunk with feelings of terror and disgust. Why did this person follow her whenever she appeared in public, glaring upon her with those wild bloodshot eyes, with unequivocal glances of hatred and ferocity.

It was impossible that it could be Gilbert, and yet the fear that the presence of this person never failed to inspire, convinced her, much as she repressed the ungenerous idea, that it was he, and no other. Once, when dismounting at her milliner’s in Bond Street, she was so near to him, that they were almost face to face. He put his sole remaining hand hastily into the breast pocket of his coat, as if to deliver something to her, but was pushed back, and told to get out of the lady’s way by the footman, and, with a glare of rage and disappointment, had shrunk back among the crowd.

This frightful apparition haunted her for several days, and disturbed her mind so much that she kept close in doors, pleading indisposition to avoid her usual drive.

CHAPTER XII.

IN CONCLUSION.

Her marriage, which took place a few days after this painful rencounter, banished all these vague fears and surmises, and made her the happy bride of the man she loved.

It was conducted in a very quiet manner, and, after partaking of the splendid déjeuner prepared for the occasion, and receiving the congratulations of the noble guests who honoured it with their presence, she started with her husband in a private carriage for the north.

After a delightful tour of several weeks, she rejoined her father in London, received her bridal visits, and, full of hope and happiness, proceeded with him to take possession of the princely home that was to be her future residence.

Great were the preparations made by the good folks of Hadstone, to welcome their beloved pastor and his beautiful bride. The gardens and meadows had been rifled of their June blossoms to strew the path from the village to the park gates, where a triumphal arch of ever-greens crossed the road, from which gay silken banners floated forth upon the breeze, emblazoned with mottos of joyful welcome.

The road was lined with crowds of people in their holiday attire, to hail the approach of the bridal party, and when the cortège came in sight, the air rang with deafening shouts and acclamations.

An elegant open carriage, drawn by four noble grey horses, contained the bridal party. The Earl and Lawrence Rushmere, whom they had taken up at Heath Farm, occupied the front seat. The old man had been provided with a dress suitable for the occasion, and his fine patriarchal face was lighted up with gratified pride and pleasure.

Lady Dorothy, dressed in a simple but elegant morning costume, was seated beside her husband in the body of the equipage, and received the congratulations of her rustic friends with smiles of undisguised pleasure. A charming incarnation she was of youth and beauty. Mr. and Mrs. Martin followed in a private carriage with the children.

If Gerard Fitzmorris was not a proud and happy man, his face belied him.

A public dinner was to be served in the park to the poor of the parish, and parents and children were dressed in their best attire, their smiling faces beaming with gladness.

The carriage drew up beneath the triumphal arch, and the Earl rose to thank the people for the hearty welcome they had given to him and his daughter.

He had scarcely raised his hat, and uttered the first sentence, when a tall haggard looking man, bare-headed and covered with dust, rushed from behind the arch to the door of the carriage, and fired a pistol with his left hand at the Lady Dorothy, who, uttering a faint cry, sank insensible into the arms of her husband.

All was now terror and confusion.

The Earl sprang from his seat to secure the assassin, amidst the groans and execrations of the excited multitude.

With a fiendish laugh the ruffian discharged the contents of another weapon into his own mouth, and fell a hideous corpse beneath the feet of the horses. He was instantly dragged out of sight by several men in the crowd, and the mangled remains conveyed to a neighbouring cottage.

The dreadful deed had been the work of a moment, and, pale and trembling with the sudden shock, the Earl grasped convulsively the door of the carriage. The sight of his daughter, her white dress stained with her blood, seemed to recall him to consciousness. “Is she dead?” he gasped.

“No, my lord,” said Dr. Davy, who had been examining the nature of the injury she had received, and who now dismounted to assist the nobleman into his carriage. “The wound is not a dangerous one. It was aimed at the lady’s heart, but at the moment the ruffian fired, she providentially put up her arm to raise her veil, which has received the ball of the assassin. The sooner we can convey her home the better.”

Gerard’s handkerchief had formed a temporary bandage to stop the effusion of blood, and as he held his fair young wife in his arms his face was as pale and rigid as her own. “How quickly,” he thought, “does sorrow tread in the footsteps of joy. How little of real happiness can be expected in a world on which rests the curse of sin, the shadows of the grave.”

Dorothy did not recover from her fainting fit until after they reached the Hall, and she had been conveyed to bed. Then followed the painful operation of extracting the ball from her right arm, where it was lodged about four inches above the elbow, and dressing and bandaging the wound, which Dr. Davy assured the anxious father and husband, would only prove a temporary inconvenience of a few weeks at the farthest.

Dorothy bore the operation without a murmur, placing her left hand in that of her husband, and leaning her head upon his breast. When it was over she was gently laid back upon her pillow, and given a composing draught to induce sleep.

“Gerard,” she whispered, “did you see that unhappy man?”

“No, my love.”

“It was Gilbert Rushmere. Has he escaped?”

“From the punishment due to his crime? Yes.”

“Thank God! I would not have him suffer death on my account. Oh, Gerard, if you had seen his eyes—the look he gave, when he fired. It was not Gilbert Rushmere but some demon in his shape.”

“Hush, my precious wife. You must not talk and distress yourself. Your wound, though not dangerous, may be rendered so, by want of rest and excitement.” But Dorothy was too much agitated to sleep.

“Did his poor father see him?”

“I think not. The whole thing was so sudden and unexpected, that Rushmere was not conscious of it until after it was all over.”

“Try and keep him from knowing who the assassin was. Tell him that it was the act of a madman in the crowd.”

“Dorothy, we must not do evil that good may come of it, or attempt to cover crime by uttering an untruth. Leave the sinner to his God, and speak of him no more.”

“And the people, Gerard. You must not disappoint them of their dinner. Tell them from me, that I shall soon be well. That I wish them all to be happy. Ah, me!” and she closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “This is a dismal ending to a day that dawned so pleasantly. That unhappy man. May God have mercy upon him, and bring him to repentance.” She spoke no more, and to the infinite relief of her husband and Mrs. Martin, who had constituted herself as nurse, soon dropped into a profound sleep.

This sad affair threw a great damp upon the joy of the people. Their gay shouts were converted into sorrowful ejaculations. Though the roasted ox was eaten—the barrels of strong ale drank—and the children did ample justice to Mrs. Brand’s excellent plum-pudding, they dispersed sadly and sorrowfully, when the meal was ended.

Lady Dorothy awoke in a high fever, and for several days was considered in imminent danger. This was not caused by the wound, the ball having penetrated only an inch beneath the skin, but from the severe shock her nervous system had sustained from witnessing a scene so terrible.

She still fancied herself in the carriage, surrounded by the gaping crowd, and encountered the frenzied gaze of the maniac, as he aimed at her the deadly weapon. Unconscious of his last desperate act, she would cling to her husband, and cry out in a tone of agonized earnestness.

“He is mad! Don’t kill him. Let him escape. I loved him once. I cannot see him die.”

As a natural antidote to this state of mental excitement, Gerard thought it best, during a brief interval of composure, to reveal to her the facts of the case, which calmed at once her agitation, by causing her to shed tears. He suffered her to weep for some time without disturbing her with any remark.

He had more than once experienced that the truth, however painful, is more endurable, and fraught with less danger to the human frame, than a state of suspense; that the natural elasticity of the mind, when the worst is known, and nothing remains to hope or fear, reconciles us to a blow that we cannot avert, and which becomes irrevocable as fate.

After lying quiet for some time, Dorothy opened her large black eyes, and, looking earnestly in her husband’s face, said in a low voice, “Gerard, is there any harm in praying for the dead?”

“I should think not, darling. Nature herself prompts such prayers. Cold must that heart be who can witness the death of a parent or friend, or even of an enemy, without breathing an inward prayer for the salvation of his soul. This impulse is almost instinctive in the human heart, and few, I believe, could be found, except the hardened sinner, who have not uttered such prayers, when bending over the loved and lost. At the same time, sweet wife, I must add, that these prayers, however pious and natural, cannot do any good to the dead, or change the sentence of a just God. But they are of service to the living, in filling the soul with a gentle charity, and bringing it into solemn communion with Him who has extracted the sting from death, and risen victorious from the grave.”

“Ah,” sighed Dorothy, “how thankful we ought to be that the future is mercifully hidden from us. Who could endure all the trials of life, if they could see them in advance? Our moments of gladness are often more nearly allied to sorrow than those of grief. The terrible reverse is so hard to bear.” Gerard fondly kissed the pale, earnest speaker, and, kneeling beside her bed, uttered a fervent prayer of thanksgiving that it had pleased God to restore his dear young wife to reason.

In a few weeks she was able to sit up, and receive the visits of sympathizing friends.

Little now remains for us to record of the eventful history of this truly noble woman.

The fortune she inherited from her grandmother was entirely devoted to charitable purposes. She caused to be erected at Storby an hospital for the sick, and a house of refuge for infirm and shipwrecked mariners.

She built a comfortable almshouse for aged and destitute widows, and a school and asylum for orphan children, whom she made her especial care. Her chief delight was in doing good, and contributing to the happiness of others, in which charitable occupation she enjoyed the hearty co-operation of a man, well worthy of being the husband and bosom friend of such an excellent wife.

Lady Dorothy became the mother of four noble promising boys, and one lovely girl named after her mother, Alice. The Earl, and her foster-father, who shared her home, lived to see her sons grow up to men, and to mingle their tears with hers, over the grave of her only daughter, who died in her innocent childhood.

The portrait of the soldier of the Covenant had been removed from Heath Farm, and placed among the pictures of the Earl’s ancestors; and old Rushmere would rub his hands while contemplating it, and declare “that old Sir Lawrence was now in his proper place.”

Dorothy had named her second son Lawrence Rushmere, after her foster-father, and the boy was the especial pet and darling of the venerable patriarch.

“Edward, and Gerard, and Thomas might be fine lads,” he said, “but they were none of them, so clever and handsome as his own Larry.”

The Earl erected a beautiful monument over the grave of his unfortunate countess, and resisted all Dorothy’s earnest entreaties to cut down the melancholy yew that kept the sunbeams from visiting her mother’s grave.

“The spot is holy ground, my Dorothy. The mournful tree, a fit emblem for love like ours, which was cradled in sorrow, and whose constancy survives the grave. There, too, I hope to sleep in peace, by the side of the beloved.”

THE END.

Table of Contents

VOLUME I.

CHAPTER I - DOROTHY AND HER LOVER

CHAPTER II - HEATH FARM

CHAPTER III - A FAMILY QUARREL

CHAPTER IV - DOROTHY’S DEPARTURE

CHAPTER V - DOROTHY’S NEW FRIENDS

CHAPTER VI - NEWS OF GILBERT

CHAPTER VII - MIDNIGHT ON THE HEATH

CHAPTER VIII - A STRANGE VISITOR

CHAPTER IX - DOROTHY GAINS FURTHER KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD

CHAPTER X - DOROTHY AND LORD WILTON

CHAPTER XI - A DISCUSSION

VOLUME II.

CHAPTER I - THE MARTINS

CHAPTER II - GILBERT’S GOOD FORTUNE

CHAPTER III - WHAT DOROTHY’S NEIGHBOURS SAID OF GILBERT’S DESERTION

CHAPTER IV - REMINISCENCES

CHAPTER V - DOROTHY BECOMES RECONCILED TO THE LOSS OF HER FIRST LOVE

CHAPTER VI - DOROTHY DOES NOT FALL IN LOVE WITH THE VICAR AT FIRST SIGHT

CHAPTER VII - MR. FITZMORRIS

CHAPTER VIII - DOROTHY’S FIRST LETTER

CHAPTER IX - DOROTHY MAKES A “CONFIDANT” OF MR. FITZMORRIS

CHAPTER X - THE ARRIVAL OF THE BRIDAL PARTY

VOLUME III.

CHAPTER I - MRS. GILBERT RUSHMERE

CHAPTER II - HOW PEOPLE ARE TAUGHT TO HATE ONE ANOTHER

CHAPTER III - A DEAD DOG

CHAPTER IV - DEATH IN ANOTHER SHAPE

CHAPTER V - THE FALSE ACCUSATION

CHAPTER VI - A PROPOSAL

CHAPTER VII - A CONFESSION

CHAPTER VIII - MR. FITZMORRIS READS A TEMPERANCE LECTURE

CHAPTER IX - THE OLD MAN IN PRISON

CHAPTER X - A LONG CHAPTER

CHAPTER XI - A PAINFUL RECOGNITION

CHAPTER XII - IN CONCLUSION